3  182201941  7880 


?  of  Califo 
rn  Regional 
ry  Facility 


UBRARY 


UNIVERSITY  OF 

CALIFORNIA 
N  SAN  DIEGO 


presented  to  the 
UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
SAN  DIEGO 

by 


The  Estate  of  Anne  Fisher 


SITY  OF  CALIFORNI 


3  182201941  7880 


/ 


The 

Golden  Treasury 

of 

Irish  Songs  and  Lyrics 


Edited  by 
CHARLES  WELSH 

Volume  One 


NEW  YORK 

Dodge  Publishing  Company 

40-42  EAST  igTH  STREET 


Copyright,  jrpo?,  by 
DODGE  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


TO 

THEODORE  ROOSEVELT 

PRESIDENT  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES 
THIS  WORK  IS  DEDICATED 

AS  A  MARK  OF  APPRECIATION  OF 
HIS  ENCOURAGEMENT  OF  THE  STUDY 
OF  IRISH  LITERATURE  IN  AMERICA 


PREFACE 

THIS  anthology,  as  its  name  implies,  aims  to  pre- 
sent some  of  the  best  examples  of  Irish  songs 
and  lyrics  from  the  Bards  who  wrote  in  their  mother 
tongue,  when  Ireland  was  the  island  of  saints  and 
scholars  and  the  school  of  the  West ;  the  folk  songs, 
street  ballads,  the  great  wealth  of  patriotic  poetry 
called  forth  by  the  suppression  and  oppression  of 
centuries,  the  humorous  and  convivial  verse  with 
which  Irish  literature  abounds,  the  pathetic,  romantic 
and  sentimental  poetry  for  which  the  Irish  have  al- 
ways been  famous,  and  the  elusive,  refined,  tender 
and  mystical  voices  which  breathe  in  the  poetry  of  the 
Irish  Renascence  of  to-day. 

Songs  and  lyrics  must  necessarily  be  an  elastic  term, 
especially  when  applied  to  Irish  verse,  since  nearly  all 
Irish  poetry  is  lyrical  and  nearly  all  Irish  poetry  is 
song ;  even  in  narrative,  descriptive  and  didactic 
poetry,  the  Irishman  more  often  than  not  takes  on  a 
lyric  tone.  Hence,  although  the  longer  poems  of 
Goldsmith  and  Moore  have  been  excluded  because 
they  do  not  exactly  answer  to  the  title  of  this  collec- 
tion, many  others  may  be  found  herein  which,  while 
not  being  strictly  songs  or  lyrics,  possess  in  some  de- 
gree the  characteristics  of  one  or  the  other, 
v 


vi  PREFACE 

Indeed  the  line  can  never  be  drawn  with  absolute 
accuracy  and  it  is  possible  that  many  pieces  have  been 
here  included  which  may  be  considered  neither  songs 
nor  lyrics,  but  the  editor  while  hoping  generally  to 
please  the  scholarly  and  critical  reader,  desires  also  to 
gratify  the  larger  public  who  will  expect  to  find  in 
such  a  collection,  those  verses  which  have  endeared 
themselves  to  the  hearts  of  the  Irish  people  and  which 
they  would  not  willingly  let  die. 

There  is  probably  no  body  of  poetry  in  the  world 
which  lends  itself  less  readily  to  literary  criticism  and 
classification  than  that  which  has  sprung  from  the 
great  heart  of  the  Irish  people.  They  have  ever  been, 
like  the  holy  men  of  old,  who  spake  as  they  were 
moved  by  the  Holy  Ghost.  As  a  rule  the  poets  of 
Ireland  have  appeared  to  care  little  for  forms  except 
those  of  rhyme  and  rhythm, — feeling  dominating  ever. 
There  is  little  effect  of  the  labor  lima  to  be  felt  in 
the  great  body  of  Irish  poetry ;  even  in  those  polished 
and  complicated  verses,  full  of  vowel  rhymes  and 
alliterations  characteristic  of  the  early  writers  in  their 
native  Irish  some  of  which  have  been  so  felicitously 
rendered  by  Dr.  Douglas  Hyde,  there  is  scarcely  any 
sensation  of  the  fetters  of  form.  From  the  first  Bard 
who  told  in  burning  and  Homeric  phrase  the  story  of 
the  fights  of  the  Iberian  Chiefs  or  of  the  grand  stand 
which  Brian  Boru  made  against  the  Danish  invasion, 
to  the  burning  songs  and  ballads  of  the  young  Ireland- 


PREFACE  vii 

ers  and  to  the  love  songs  of  Moore  and  the  mystical 
imaginings  of  the  poets  of  the  modern  revival,  there 
is  always  a  sense  of  spontaneousness  left  on  the  mind 
of  the  reader ;  action,  sentiment  and  feeling  have  ever 
been  the  pulsating  notes  of  Irish  poetry  as  they  have 
always  been  the  dominant  features  of  the  Irish  char- 
acter, shaping  and  moulding  the  destinies  of  the  race. 

No  collection  of  Irish  songs  and  lyrics  would  be 
complete  without  some  examples  of  the  convivial 
songs,  which  had  their  vogue  in  the  genial  days  of 
Lever,  Lover  and  Moore.  The  fashion  which  gave 
them  birth  has  passed  away  and  there  are  many 
features  of  it  which  it  would  be  well  to  forget,  but  it 
represents  a  distinct  period  in  the  national  life  and 
a  character  and  spirit  of  the  people  which  is  as  per- 
manent as  its  hills  and  its  valleys,  its  rivers  and  its 
bogs. 

But  no  lengthy  disquisition  on  the  characteristics 
and  history  of  Irish  poetry  need  be  attempted  here. 
More  competent  authorities  have  dealt  with  the  sub- 
ject in  its  many  and  varied  aspects  and  the  poetry  of 
Ireland  by  common  consent  now  holds  a  high  and 
distinguished  place  among  the  literatures  of  the  world. 

An  anthology  loses  half  its  value  unless  it  be  also  a 
work  of  ready  reference,  hence  the  plan  has  been 
adopted  of  arranging  the  contents  of  this  volume 
alphabetically,  according  to  the  names  of  the  authors 
and  the  translators  from  the  Gaelic,  anonymous  poetry 


Vlll 


PREFACE 


finding  a  place  in  the  alphabetical  order  under  the 
title  of  Street  Ballads,  Hedge  Songs  and  Anonymous 
verse. 

For  those  who  wish  to  study  the  groups  into  which 
Irish  songs  and  lyrics  naturally  fall,  the  apparatus  fur- 
nished at  the  end  of  the  volume  will  be  found  readily 
practicable.  The  thousand  and  one  gems  of  Irish 
poetry  contained  herein  are  classified  in  the  indexes  in 
such  a  manner  that  the  student  can  easily  find  every 
group  with  which  he  may  wish  to  acquaint  himself. 
The  folk  songs,  the  Bardic  songs,  the  love  songs,  the 
humorous  and  convivial  songs  and  the  sacred  poetry, 
as  well  as  many  other  minor  subdivisions  will  be 
found  in  their  places. 

The  translations  from  the  Gaelic  by  different  hands 
included  in  the  volume  are  indexed  under  the  names  of 
their  translators ;  and  so  far  as  the  authorship  is  known, 
under  the  names  of  the  writers ;  they  are  also  indexed 
in  the  general  group  of  Gaelic  authors.  A  few  trans- 
lations of  the  same  poems  by  different  hands  will  be 
found  as  for  example :  "  The  famous  hills  of  Eire  O," 
of  which  no  less  than  three  different  versions  are  given. 

In  garnering  this  collection  the  editor  has  had  the 
advantage  of  the  critical  judgment  of  some  of  the  fore- 
most Irish  scholars  and  poets  among  whom  may  be 
mentioned  with  grateful  thanks :  Dr.  Douglas  Hyde, 
Mr.  Stephen  Lucius  Gwynn,  Francis  Joseph  Bigger 
and  D.  J.  O'Donoghue  as  well  as  some  of  the  best 


PREFACE  ix 

English  and  Irish  scholars  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic, 
and  among  these  thanks  are  especially  due  to  Professor 
F.  N.  Robinson,  who  occupies  the  Celtic  chair  at 
Harvard  University,  Dr.  Maurice  F.  Egan  of  the 
Catholic  University  in  Washington,  the  Rev.  C.  P. 
Gavan,  Messrs.  John  D.  Crimmins,  Patrick  Ford, 
Eugene  Geary,  John  J.  Rooney,  James  Ryan,  and 
S.  J.  Richardson. 

CHARLES  WELSH. 

Winthrop,  Mass.,  June,  1906. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

(VOLUME  I) 

ALEXANDER,  CECIL  FRANCES I 

Dreams I 

The  Burial  of  Moses 2 

The  Irish  Mother's  Lament 4 

The  Legend  of  Stumpie's  Brae 7 

There  is  a  Green  Hill 13 

ALEXANDER,  WILLIAM 14 

Very  Far  Away 14 

ALLINGHAM,  WILLIAM 15 

Abbey  Asaroe 15 

Across  the  Sea 17 

A  Dream 17 

Among  the  Heather 19 

Four  Ducks  on  a  Pond 20 

Half-Waking 20 

Lovely  Mary  Donnelly 21 

Spring  is  Come 23 

The  Ban-Shee 25 

The  Fairies 27 

The  Leprecaun,  or  Fairy  Shoemaker 29 

The  Lover  and  Birds 31 

The  Milkmaid 33 

The  Ruined  Chapel 35 

The  Sailor 36 

The  Winding  Banks  of  Erne 37 

Windlass  Song 43 

Winning 44 

Wishing 45 

ANSTER,  JOHN 46 

The  Fairy  Child ' 46 

xi 


xii  CONTENTS 


ARMSTRONG,  JOHN  FRANCIS 48 

Adieu 48 

The  Blind  Student 48 

BANIM,  JOHN 50 

Aileen 50 

Soggarth  Aroon 51 

The  Fetch 53 

The  Irish  Mother  in  the  Penal  Days 54 

BARLOW,  JANE 56 

The  Flitting  of  the  Fairies 56 

BARRY,  MICHAEL  JOSEPH 59 

The  Place  Where  Man  Should  Die 59 

The  Sword 60 

BEAMISH,  FLORENCE 63 

Sleep  On 63 

BERKELEY,  GEORGE,  Bishop  of  Cloyne 64 

On  the   Prospect  of  Planting  Arts  and  Learning  in 

America 64 

BlCKERSTAFF,  ISAAC 66 

Song 66 

Two  Songs 66 

BLAKE,  MARY  ELIZABETH 69 

The  Dawning  o'  the  Year      69 

The  First  Steps 71 

BOUCICAULT,  DION •    .    .   .    .  74 

Song 74 

BOYD,  THOMAS 76 

To  the  Leanan  Sidhe 76 

BOYLE,  WILLIAM 78 

Philandering 78 

BRENAN,  JOSEPH 80 

Come  to  Me,  Dearest 80 


CONTENTS  xiii 


BROOKE,  CHARLOTTE 82 

Pulse  of  My  Heart 82 

BROOKE,  STOPFORD  AUGUSTUS 83 

The  Noble  Lay  of  Aillinn ' .  83 

BROWNE,  FRANCES 87 

O  the  Pleasant  Days  of  Old  1 87 

The  Last  Friends 89 

What  Hath  Time  Taken 90 

BUGGY,  KEVIN  T 92 

The  Saxon  Shilling 92 

CALLANAN,  JAMES  JOSEPH 94 

And  Must  We  Part 94 

Dirge  of  O'Sullivan  Bear 95 

Gougane  Barra 97 

O  Say,  My  Brown  Drimin 100 

The  Convict  of  Clonmel 101 

The  Lament  of  O'Gnive 102 

CAMPBELL,  JOSEPH 105 

Newtownbreda 105 

The  Friar's  Bush 106 

The  Garden  of  the  Bees 109 

The  Lament  of  Patraic  Mor  MacCruimin  over  His 

Sons no 

The  Nine  Glens  of  Aon-Druim 112 

CAMPION,  JOHN  T 114 

Emmet's  Death 114 

CANNING,  GEORGE 116 

Epitaph 116 

Song 117 

The  Friend  of  Humanity  and  the  Knife-Grinder   .    .  1 19 

CANTON,  WILLIAM 121 

Laus  Infantum 121 

CARLETON,  WILLIAM 122 

A  Sigh  for  Knockmany 122 


xiv  CONTENTS 


CASEY,  JOHN  KEEGAN 124 

Donal  Kenny ,  124 

Gracie  Og  Machree 126 

Maire  My  Girl 127 

The  Rising  of  the  Moon ".  128 

CHERRY,  ANDREW     131 

The  Bay  of  Biscay 131 

The  Green  Little  Shamrock  of  Ireland 132 

Tom  Moody 133 

CHESSON,  MRS.  W.  H.,  (Nora  Hopper) 135 

Niam 135 

The  Cuckoo  Sings  in  the  Heart  of  Winter 137 

The  Dark  Man        137 

The  Faery  Fool 138 

The  Fairy  Fiddler 139 

The  Gray  Fog 140 

The  King  of  Ireland's  Son 141 

CLARKE,  J.  B., 143 

Eman-ac-Knuck  to  Eva      143 

CLARKE,  JOSEPH  IGNATIUS  CONSTANTINK 146 

Rough  Rider  O'Neill 146 

The  Fighting  Race 148 

CODE,  HENRY  BRERETON 151 

The  Sprig  of  Shillelah 151 

COLEMAN,  PATRICK  JAMES 153 

Bindin'  the  Oats      153 

Seed-Time 154 

COLUM,  PADRAIC 157 

A  Drover      157 

Dream  and  Shadow 158 

The  Bells 159 

The  Flower      .    .    .    .  " 159 

CONGREVE,  WILLIAM 161 

Amoret 161 

Extracts  from  the  "  Mourning  Bride  " 161 


CONTENTS  xv 


CONNOLLY,  DANIEL 163 

Compensation 163 

Memories  of  the  Erne     . 165 

Trout  Fishing 169 

CONNOLLY,  JAMES 173 

The  Song  of  Ilann 173 

CONOLLY,  LUKE  AYLMER 174 

The  Enchanted  Island 174 

CRAWFORD,  MRS.  JULIA 176 

Dermot  Astore 176 

Kathleen  Mavourueen 177 

CROKER,  T.  CROFTON 178 

Caoine  on  Maurice  Fitzgerald,  Knight  of  Kerry     .    .  178 

The  Lord  of  Dunkerron 180 

CROLY,  REV.  GEORGE 184 

Leonidas 184 

The  Island  of  Atlantis 185 

CURRAN,  HENRY  GRATTAN 188 

A  Lament 188 

CURRAN,  JOHN  PHILPOT •    ....  191 

Cushla-ma-chree  .    .           191 

The  Deserter's  Meditation 192 

The  Monks  of  the  Screw 192 

D'ALTON,  JOHN 195 

Claragh's  Lament 195 

DARLEY,  GEORGE 198 

Song 198 

Song  of  the  Summer  Winds 199 

To  Helene 200 

True  Loveliness 201 

•DAVis,  FRANCIS 203 

My  Kallagh  Dhu  Asthore 203 

Nanny 205 


xvi  CONTENTS 


DAVIS,  THOMAS  OSBORNE 207 

A  Christmas  Scene,  or  Love  in  the  Country    ....  207 

A  Nation  Once  Again .  209 

A  Plea  for  Love 210 

Fontenoy 211 

Maire  Bhan  a  Stor 214 

My  Grave 216 

My  Land 217 

Oh  !  the  Marriage 217 

The  Girl  of  Dunbwy 219 

The  Welcome 220 

The  West's  Asleep , 221 

DAWSON,  ARTHUR 223 

Bumpers,  Squire  Jones 223 

DE  VERE,  SIR  AUBREY 227 

Liberty  of  the  Press 227 

The  Children  Band .  227 

The  Shannon 228 

DE  VERE,  AUBREY  T , 229 

Dirge  of  Rory  O'More 229 

Flowers  I  Would  Bring 230 

Sad  is  Our  Youth 230 

Song 231 

Sorrow 232 

The  Little  Black  Rose 232 

DOHENY,  MICHAEL 234 

A  Cushla  Gal  mo  Chree 234 

DOLLARD,  REV.  JAMES  B 236 

Irish  Mist  and  Sunshine .  236 

The  Tallin'  o'  the  Rain 237 

When  the  West  Wind  Blows 239 

DOWDEN,  EDWARD 241 

Awakening 241 

Lady  Margaret's  Song 241 

Song ...  242 


CONTENTS  xvii 


DOWLING,  BARTHOLOMEW 244 

The  Brigade  at  Fontenoy 244 

DOWNING,  ELLEN  MARY  PATRICK 247 

The  Old  Church  at  Lismore      247 

DRENNAN,  DR.  WILLIAM .   .  250 

Erin .    .  250 

The  Wake  of  William  Orr 252 

DRENNAN,  WILLIAM,  JR 254 

The  Battle  of  Beal-an-atha-buidh 254 

DRUMMOND,  REV.  W.  H 257 

Cuchullin's  Chariot 257 

DUFFERIN,  LADY  HELEN 259 

Katey's  Letter 259 

Lament  of  the  Irish  Emigrant  ....        260 

DUFFET,  THOMAS 263 

Come  All  You  Pale  Lovers 263 

DUFFY,  SIR  CHARLES  GAVAN 265 

Innishowen      265 

The  Irish  Rapparees 267 

The  Muster  of  the  North 270 

EGAN,  MAURICE  F 275 

By  Right  Divine 275 

The  Shamrock 275 

EMMET,  ROBERT 277 

Lines 277 

FAHY,  FRANCIS  A 279 

Irish  Molly  O 279 

"  The  Bog  Road  " ....  280 

The  Donovans 283 

The  Quid  Plaid  Shawl 284 


xviii  CONTENTS 


FERGUSON,  SIR  SAMUEL 287 

Cean  Dubh  Deelish 287 

Drimmin  Dhu      287 

Lament  Over  the  Ruins  of  the  Abbey  of  Timoleague,  288 

Mild  Mabel  Kelly 291 

Owen  Bawn 292 

Pastheen  Fion 294 

The  Coolun .  296 

The  Fair  Hills  of  Ireland .....*'.'  898 

The  Fairy  Thorn 299 

The  Fairy  Well  of  Lagnanay 302 

The  Forging  of  the  Anchor   .    .  305 

The  Lapful  of  Nuts 310 

FITZGERALD,  MAURICE 311 

Moonlight  on  New  York  Bay 311 

To  Douglas  Hyde 312 

FITZSIMON,  ELLEN 314 

The  Song  of  the  Irish  Emigrant  in  America  .    .    .    .  314 

FLECKNOE,  RICHARD 317 

Of  Drinking 317 

FORREST,  J.  L 318 

The  Banshee's  Song 318 

FORRESTER,  ELLEN       321 

The  Widow's  Message  to  Her  Son 321 

Fox,  GEORGE 324 

The  County  of  Mayo 324 

FRAZER,  JEAN  DE  JEAN 326 

Brosna's  Banks 326 

Song  for  July  I2th,  1843 S2^ 

FURLONG,  ALICE 330 

The  Dreamer 330 

The  Trees 331 


CONTENTS  xix 


FURLONG,  MARY 333 

An  Irish  Love-Song 333 

Glen-na-Smoel 335 

FURLONG,  THOMAS 337 

Bridget  Cruise 337 

Eileen  Aroon 339 

Maggy  Laidir 34° 

Roisin  Dubh 343 

GALLAGHER,  F.  O'NEILL 345 

The  Sea  Madness 345 

GALLAGHER,  W.  D 34& 

The  Laborer 346 

GEOGHEGAN,  ARTHUR  GERALD 348 

After  Aughrim 34$ 

The  Mountain  Fern 34^ 

GILBERT,  LADY  (Rosa  Mulholland) 351 

Kilfenora      351 

Saint  Brigid .    .    .  352 

Shamrocks 353 

Song 353 

The  Builders 354 

The  Wild  Geese 357 

GOLDSMITH,  OLIVER 360 

An  Elegy     . 360 

Memory 361 

The  Hermit 361 

Tony  Lumpkin's  Song 367 

Woman 3^8 

GORE-BOOTH,  EVA 369 

From  East  to  West 3^9 

The  Little  Waves  of  Breffhy 369 

To  Maeve 37° 


xx  CONTENTS 


GRAVES,  A.  P 372 

An  Irish  Grace    ....  372 

Father  O'Flynn 373 

Irish  Eyes .    .  375 

Kitty  Bhan 375 

Like  a  Stone  in  the  Street .    .  376 

The  Blue,  Blue  Smoke 377 

She  Is  My  Love 379 

The  Irish  Spinning- Wheel 380 

GRAVES,  C.  L 382 

Ad  Aristiden  Qbfuscatum 382 

Ad  Aristium  Fuscum 383 

GREENE,  GEORGE  ARTHUR 386 

On  Great  Sugarloaf 386 

Spring-Time 387 

GRIFFIN,  GERALD 389 

Eileen  Aroon 389 

Gile  Machree 391 

Hy-Brasail :  the  Isle  of  the  Blest 393 

The  Wake  of  the  Absent 394 

GWYNN,  STEPHEN  LUCIAS 396 

A  Lay  of  Ossian  and  Patrick 396 

Ireland 4°3 

Mater  Severa 404 

HALPINE,  CHARLES  GRAHAM      407 

Not  a  Star  From  the  Flag  Shall  Fade 407 

HOBSON,  BULMER 409 

The  Deluge ' 4°9 

Ulad 41° 

HOGAN,  MICHAEL 412 

Draherin  O  Machree  . 412 


CONTENTS  xxi 


HYDE,  DOUGLAS 414 

From  a  Poem  by  Teige  MacDaire 414 

I  Shall  Not  Die  for  Thee       415 

Little  Child,  I  Call  Thee 416 

My  Grief  on  the  Sea 417 

My  Love — oh!  She  is  My  Love 418 

O  Were  You  on  the  Mountain 420 

Ringleted  Youth  of  My  Love 420 

The  Brow  of  Nefin 421 

The  Red  Man's  Wife     „ 423 

The  Sign  of  the  Cross  Forever      424 

INGRAM,  JOHN  KELLS 426 

The  Memory  of  the  Dead 426 

IRWIN,  THOMAS  CAULFIELD 428 

A  Window  Song , 428 

The  Emigrant's  Voyage 430 

The  Potato-Digger's  Song 432 

JOHNSON,  LIONEL 435 

The  Dark  Angel      .        435 

The  Last  Music 437 

The  Red  Wind 438 

To  Morfydd 439 

Ways  of  War 440 

JOYCE,  ROBERT  DWYER 442 

Crossing  the  Blackwater 442 

The  Blacksmith  of  Limerick 444 

The  Wind  That  Shakes  the  Barley 447 

KAVANAGH,  ROSE 449 

Lough  Bray 449 

St.  Michan's  Churchyard   . 450 

The  Northern  Blackwater 451 

KEEGAN,  JOHN 454  • 

Caoch  the  Piper 454 

KEELING,  ELSA  D'ESTERRE 458 

Love  Making  in  Paddy  Land 458 


xxii  CONTENTS 


KENEALY,  EDWARD 459 

Love's  Warning 459 

KENEALY,  WILLIAM 461 

The  Last  Request 461 

The  Moon  Behind  the  Hill 462 

KENNEDY,  WILLIAM 464 

The  Poet's  Heart 464 

KENNEY,  JAMES " 466 

Why  Are  You  Wandering  Here 466 

KEOHLER,  THOMAS 467 

Apology 467 

Autumn 468 

The  Devotee 468 

KICKHAM,  CHARLES  J 470 

My  Ulick 470 

Patrick  Sheehan 472 

Rory  of  the  Hill 474 

LANE,  DENNY 477 

Kate  of  Arraglen 477 

LARMINIE,  WILLIAM 480 

Consolation      480 

LAWLESS,  EMILY 482 

A  Retort , 482 

LEAMY,  EDMUND ...  484 

A  Royal  Love t 484 

LEFANU,  JOSEPH  SHERIDAN 486 

Abnrain  an  Bhuideil 486 

Shamus  O'Brien „   ....  489 


The   GOLDEN  TREASURY 
of  IRISH  SONGS  and  LYRICS 


CECIL  FRANCES  ALEXANDER 
(1818-1895) 

DREAMS 

BEYOND,  beyond  the  mountain  line, 
The  gray-stone  and  the  boulder, 
Beyond  the  growth  of  dark  green  pine, 
That  crowns  its  western  shoulder, 
There  lies  that  fairy-land  of  mine, 
Unseen  of  a  beholder. 

Its  fruits  are  all  like  rubies  rare ; 

Its  streams  are  clear  as  glasses ; 
There  golden  castles  hang  in  air, 

And  purple  grapes  in  masses, 
And  noble  knights  and  ladies  fair 

Come  riding  down  the  passes. 

Ah  me  !  they  say  if  I  could  stand 

Upon  those  mountain  ledges, 
I  should  but  see  on  either  hand 

Plain  fields  and  dusty  hedges; 
And  yet  I  know  my  fairy-land 

Lies  somewhere  o'er  their  edges. 


2          THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

THE  BURIAL  OF  MOSES 

BY  Nebo's  lonely  mountain,  on  this  side  Jordan's 
wave, 
In   a  vale,  in   the  land  of  Moab,  there  lies  a 

lonely  grave; 
And  no  man  knows  that  sepulchre,  and  no  man  saw 

it  e'er ; 

For  the  angels  of  God  upturned  the  sod,  and  laid  the 
dead  man  there. 


That  was  the  grandest  funeral  that  ever  passed  on 

earth ; 
But  no  man  heard  the  trampling,  or  saw  the  train  go 

forth  — 
Noiselessly,  as  the  Daylight  comes  back  when  Night 

is  done, 
And  the  crimson  streak  on  ocean's  cheek  grows  into 

the  great  sun. 

Noiselessly,  as  the  spring-time  her  crown  of  verdure 

weaves, 
And  all  the  trees  on  all  the  hills  open  their  thousand 

leaves ; 
So,  without  sound  of  music,  or  voice  of  them  that 

wept, 
Silently  down  from  the  mountain's  crown,  the  great 

procession  swept. 

Perchance  the  bald  old  eagle,  on  gray  Beth-Peor's 

height, 

Out  of   his   lonely  eyrie,   looked   on   the   wondrous 
sight; 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS  3 

Perchance  the  lion  stalking  still  shuns  that  hallowed 

spot, 
For  beast  and  bird  have  seen  and  heard  that  which 

man  knoweth  not ! 

But  when  the  Warrior  dieth,  his  comrades  in  the  war, 
With  arms   reversed    and   muffled  drum,   follow  his 

funeral  car ; 

They  show  the  banners  taken,  they  tell  his  battles  won, 
And  after  him  lead  his  masterless  steed,  while  peals 

the  minute-gun. 

Amid  the  noblest  of  the  land  we  lay  the  Sage  to  rest, 
And  give  the  Bard  an  honored  place,  with  costly 

marble  drest, — 
In  the  great  minster  transept,  where  lights  like  glories 

fall, 
And  the  organ  rings,  and  the  sweet  choir  sings,  along 

the  emblazoned  wall. 

This  was  the  truest  warrior  that  ever  buckled  sword ; 
This  the  most  gifted  poet  that  ever  breathed  a  word ; 
And  never  earth's  philosopher  traced  with  his  golden 

pen, 
On  the  deathless  page,  truths  half  so  sage  as  he  wrote 

down  for  men. 

And  had  he  not  high  honor, — the  hillside  for  a  pall  ? 
To  lie  in  state,  while  angels  wait,  with  stars  for  tapers 

tall? 
And  the  dark  rock-pines,  like  tossing  plumes,  over  his 

bier  to  wave  ! 
And  God's  own  hand,  in  that  lonely  land,  to  lay  him 

in  the  grave ! 


4         THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

In  that  strange  grave  without  a  name, — whence  his 
uncoffined  clay 

Shall  break  again,  O  wondrous  thought !  before  the 
judgment  day, 

And  stand,  with  glory  wrapt  around,  on  the  hills  he 
never  trod, 

And  speak  of  the  strife  that  won  our  life,  with  the  in- 
carnate Son  of  God. 


O  lonely  grave  in  Moab's  land  !    O  dark  Beth-Peor's 

hill! 
Speak  to  these  curious  hearts  of  ours,  and  teach  them 

to  be  still. 
God  hath  his  mysteries  of  grace,  ways  that  we  cannot 

tell; 
He  hides  them  deep,  like  the  hidden  sleep  of  him  he 

loved  so  well. 


THE  IRISH  MOTHER'S  LAMENT 

"  She  watched  for  the  return  of  her  son  from  America  in  her 
house  by  the  Foyle,  near  Derry." 


T 


HERE'S  no  one  on  the  long  white  road 

The  night  is  closing  o'er ; 
O  mother  !  cease  to  look  abroad 
And  let  me  shut  the  door. 


"  Now  here  and  there  a  twinkling  light 

Comes  out  along  the  bay  ; 
The  little  ships  lie  still  and  white, 
And  no  one  comes  this  way." 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LTRICS 

She  turned  her  straining  eyes  within ; 

She  sighed  both  long  and  low. 
"  Shut  up  the  door ;  take  out  the  pin, 
Then,  if  it  must  be  so. 

"But,  daughter,  set  the  wick  alight, 

And  put  it  in  the  pane  ; 
If  any  should  come  home  to-night, 
He'll  see  it  through  the  rain. 

"  Nay,  leave  the  pin  beneath  the  latch ; 

If  some  one  push  the  door, 
Across  my  broken  dreams  I'll  hear 
His  footstep  on  the  floor." 

She  crouched  within  the  ingle  nook, 

She  spread  her  fingers  sere, 
Her  failed  eyes  had  a  far-off  look, 

Despite  her  fourscore  year. 

And  if  in  youth  they  had  been  fair, 
'Twas  not  the  charm  they  had, 

Not  the  old  beauty  lingering  there, 
But  something  weird  and  sad. 

The  daughter,  in  the  firelight  pale, 

A  woman  gray  and  wan, 
Sat  listening,  while  half  dream,  half  wail, 

Her  words  went  wandering  on  ; 

"O  river  that  dost  never  halt 
Till  down  beyond  the  bar 
Thou  meet'st  the  breakers  green  and  salt 
That  bore  my  lads  afar  — 


THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

"  O  sea  betwixt  our  slighted  isle 

And  that  wide  bounteous  West 
That  has  such  magic  in  her  smile 
To  lure  away  our  best  — 

"Bring  back,  bring  back  the  guiding  keel; 

Bring  fast  the  home-bound  ship  ; 
Mine  eyes  look  out ;  I  faint  to  feel 
The  touch  of  hand  and  lip. 

"  And  is  that  land  so  much  more  fair, 

So  much  more  rich  that  shore 
Than  this,  where,  prodigal  of  care, 
I  nursed  the  sons  I  bore  ? 

"  I  nursed  them  at  my  yielding  breast, 

I  reared  them  at  my  knee, 
They  left  me  for  the  golden  West ; 
They  left  me  for  the  sea. 

'•  With  hungry  heart,  and  eyes  that  strove 

In  vain  their  eyes  to  meet, 
And  all  my  lavish  mother's  love 
Beat  backward  to  my  feet  — 

"Like  that  broad  stream  that  runs,  and  raves, 

And  floweth  grandly  out, 
But  the  salt  billows  catch  its  waves, 
And  fling  them  all  about  — 

"The  bitter  world  washed  out  my  claim  ; 

In  childhood  it  was  dear, 
But  youth  forgets,  and  manhood  came, 
And  dashed  it  far  and  near. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS 

"But  when  I  think  of  the  old  time, 

Soft  fingers,  eyes  that  met, 
In  spite  of  age,  in  spite  of  clime, 
I  wonder  they  forget. 

"  And  if  they  live,  their  life  is  strong ; 

Forgotten  here  I  die  ; 
I  question  with  my  heart,  and  long, 
And  cannot  answer  why, 

"  Till  by  Christ's  grace  I  walk  in  white 

Where  his  redeemed  go, 
And  know  the  reason  of  God's  right, 
Or  never  care  to  know. 

"But  out-bound  ships  come  home  again; 

They  sail  'neath  sun  and  moon. 
Put  thou  the  candle  in  the  pane ; 
They  may  be  coming  soon." 

"  Calm  lie  the  lights  below  the  town  ; 

There's  not  a  ship  in  sight ; 
O  mother  I  cease,  and  lay  you  down ; 
They  will  not  come  to-night." 

THE  LEGEND  OF  STUMPIE'S  BRAE1 


H 


EARD  ye  no  tell  o'  the  Stumpie's  Brae  ? 

Sit  down,  sit  down,  young  friend, 
I'll  make  your  flesh  to  creep  to-day, 
And  your  hair  to  stan'  on  end. 


1  This  embodies  an  actual  legend  attached  to  a  lonely  spot  on 
the  border  of  the  County  of  Donegal.  The  language  of  the 
ballad  is  the  peculiar  semi-Scottish  dialect  spoken  in  the  North 
of  Ireland. — Author. 


THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

Young  man,  'tis  hard  to  strive  wi'  sin, 

And  the  hardest  strife  of  a', 
Is  where  the  greed  o'  gain  creeps  in, 

And  drives  God's  grace  awa'. 

Oh,  it's  quick  to  do,  but  it's  lang  to  rue, 
When  the  punishment  comes  at  last, 

And  we  would  give  the  world  to  undo 
The  deed  that's  done  and  past. 

Over  yon  strip  of  meadow  land, 

And  over  the  burnie  bright, 
Dinna  ye  mark  the.fir-trees  stand, 

Around  yon  gable  white  ? 

I  mind  it  weel,  in  my  younger  days 

The  story  yet  was  rife  : 
There  dwelt  within  that  lonely  place 

A  farmer  and  his  wife. 

They  sat  together,  all  alone, 

One  blessed  Autumn  night, 
When  the  trees  without,  and  hedge,  and  stone, 

Were  white  in  the  sweet  moonlight. 

The  boys  and  girls  were  gone  down  all 
A  wee  to  the  blacksmith's  wake ; 

There  pass'd  ane  on  by  the  window  small, 
And  guv  the  door  a  shake. 

The  man  he  up  and  open'd  the  door  — 

When  he  had  spoken  a  bit, 
A  pedlar  man  stepp'd  into  the  floor, 
Down  he  tumbled  the  pack  he  bore, 

Right  heavy  pack  was  it. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS 

"  Gude  save  us  a',"  says  the  wife,  wi'  a  smile, 
"  But  yours  is  a  thrivin'  trade."  — 

"Ay,  ay,  I've  wander'd  mony  a  mile, 
And  plenty  have  I  made." 


The  man  sat  on  by  the  dull  fire  flame, 
When  the  pedlar  went  to  rest ; 

Close  to  his  ear  the  Devil  came, 
And  slipp'd  intil  his  breast. 


He  look'd  at  his  wife  by  the  dim  firelight, 

And  she  was  as  bad  as  he  — 
" Could  we  no'  murder  thon  man  the  night?  " 

"Ay  could  we,  ready,"  quo'  she. 

He  took  the  pickaxe  without  a  word, 
Whence  it  stood,  ahint  the  door ; 

As  he  pass'd  in,  the  sleeper  stirr'd, 
That  never  waken 'd  more. 


"  He's  dead  !  "  says  the  auld  man,  coming  back 

"  What  o'  the  corp,  my  dear  ?  " 
"  We'll  bury  him  snug  in  his  ain  bit  pack, 
Never  ye  mind  for  the  loss  of  the  sack, 

I've  ta'en  out  a'  the  gear." 


"  The  pack's  owre  short  by  twa  gude  span, 

What'll  we  do  !  "  quo'  he  — 
"  Ou,  you're  a  doited,  unthoughtfu'  man, 

We'll  cut  him  off  at  the  knee." 


io       THE  GOLDEN  TREASURT  OF 

They  shorten'd   the   corp,  and   they  pack'd    him 
tight, 

Wi'  his  legs  in  a  pickle  hay ; 
Over  the  burn,  in  the  sweet  moonlight, 

They  carried  him  till  this  brae. 

They  shovell'd  a  hole  right  speedily, 

They  laid  him  in  on  his  back  — 
"  A  right  pair  are  ye,"  quo'  the  PEDLAR,  quo'  he, 

Sitting  bolt  upright  in  the  pack. 

"  Ye  think  ye've  laid  me  snugly  here, 

And  none  shall  know  my  station  ; 
But  I'll  hant  ye  far,  and  I'll  hant  ye  near, 
Father  and  son,  wi'  terror  and  fear, 

To  the  nineteenth  generation." 

The  twa  were  sittin'  the  vera  next  night, 

When  the  dog  began  to  cower, 
And  they  knew,  by  the  pale  blue  firelight, 

That  the  Evil  One  had  power. 

It  has  stricken  nine,  just  nine  o'  the  clock  — 

The  hour  when  the  man  lay  dead ; 
There  came  to  the  outer  door  a  knock, 

And  a  heavy,  heavy  tread. 

The  old  man's  head  swam  round  and  round, 

The  woman's  blood  'gan  freeze, 
For  it  was  not  like  a  natural  sound, 
But  like  some  one  stumping  o'er  the  ground 

On  the  banes  of  his  twa  bare  knees. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS          11 

And  through  the  door,  like  a  sough  of  air, 

And  stump,  stump,  round  the  twa, 
Wi'  his  bloody  head,  and  his  knee  banes  bare  — 

They'd  marst  ha'e  died  of  awe  ! 

The  wife's  black  locks  ere  morn  grew  white, 

They  say,  as  the  mountain  snaws; 
The  man  was  as  straight  as  a  staff  that  night, 

But  he  stoop'd  when  the  morning  rose. 

Still,  year  and  day,  as  the  clock  struck  NINE, 

The  hour  when  they  did  the  sin, 
The  wee  bit  dog  began  to  whine, 

And  the  ghaist  came  clattering  in. 

Ae  night  there  was  a  fearful  flood  — 

Three  days  the  skies  had  pour'd  ; 
And  white  vvi'  foam,  and  black  wi'  mud, 

The  burn  in  fury  roar'd. 

Quo'  she — "  Gude  man,  ye  need  na  turn 

Sae  pale  in  the  dim  firelight ; 
The  Stumpie  canna  cross  the  burn 

He'll  no'  be  here  the  night. 

"  For  it's  o'er  the  bank,  and  it's  o'er  the  linn, 

And  it's  up  to  the  meadow  ridge  " — 
"Ay,"  quo'  the  Stumpie  hirpling  in, 
And  he  gied  the  wife  a  slap  on  the  chin, 
"  But  I  cam'  round  by  the  bridge !  " 

And  stump,  stump,  stump,  to  his  plays  again, 

And  o'er  the  stools  and  chairs  ; 
Ye'd  surely  hae  thought  ten  women  and  men 

Were  dancing  there  in  pairs. 


12        THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

They  sold  their  gear,  and  over  the  sea 

To  a  foreign  land  they  went, 
Over  the  sea — but  wha  can  flee 

His  appointed  punishment  ? 

The  ship  swam  over  the  water  clear, 
Wi"  the  help  o'  the  eastern  breeze; 
But  the  vera  first  sound  in  guilty  fear, 
O'er  the  wide,  smooth  deck,  that  fell  on  their  ear 
Was  the  tapping  o'  them  twa  knees. 

In  the  woods  of  wild  America 

Their  weary  feet  they  set ; 
But  Stumpie  was  there  the  first,  they  say, 
And  he  haunted  them  onto  their  dying  day, 

And  he  follows  their  children  yet. 

I  haud  ye,  never  the  voice  of  blood 

Call'd  from  the  earth  in  vain; 
And  never  has  crime  won  worldly  good, 

But  it  brought  its  after-pain. 

This  is  the  story  o'  Stumpie's  Brae, 

And  the  murderers'  fearin'  fate : 
Young  man,  your  face  is  turn'd  that  way, 

Ye"  11  be  ganging  the  night  that  gate. 

Ye' 11  ken  it  weel,  through  the  few  fir-trees, 

The  house  where  they  wont  to  dwell ; 
Gin  ye  meet  ane  there,  as  daylight  flees, 
Stumping  about  on  the  banes  of  his  knees 
It'll  just  be  Stumpie  himsel'. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS         13 


THERE  IS  A  GREEN  HILL 


T 


HERE  is  a  green  hill  far  away, 

Without  a  city  wall, 
Where  the  dear  Lord  was  crucified, 

Who  died  to  save  us  all. 


We  may  not  know,  we  cannot  tell 
What  pains  he  had  to  bear, 

But  we  believe  it  was  for  us 

He  hung  and  suffered  there. 

He  died  that  we  might  be  forgiven, 
He  died  to  make  us  good, 

That  we  might  go  at  last  to  heaven, 
Saved  by  his  precious  blood. 

There  was  no  other  good  enough 
To  pay  the  price  of  sin  ; 

He  only  could  unlock  the  gate 
Of  heaven  and  let  us  in. 

O  dearly,  dearly  has  he  loved, 
And  we  must  love  him  too, 

And  trust  in  his  redeeming  blood, 
And  try  his  works  to  do. 


1 4        THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 


WILLIAM  ALEXANDER  (1824 ) 

VERY  FAR  AWAY 

ONE  touch  there  is  of  magic  white, 
Surpassing  southern  mountain's  snow 
That  to  far  sails  the  dying  light 
Lends,  where  the  dark  ships  onward  go 
Upon  the  golden  highway  broad 
That  leads  up  to  the  isles  of  God. 

One  touch  of  light  more  magic  yet, 
Of  rarer  snow  'neath  moon  or  star, 

Where,  with  her  graceful  sails  all  set, 
Some  happy  vessel  seen  afar, 

As  if  in  an  enchanted  sleep 

Steers  o'er  the  tremulous  stretching  deep. 

O  ship  !  O  sail !  far  must  ye  be 
Ere  gleams  like  that  upon  ye  light. 

O'er  golden  spaces  of  the  sea, 

From  mysteries  of  the  lucent  night, 

Such  touch  comes  never  to  the  boat 

Wherein  across  the  waves  we  float. 

O  gleams,  more  magic  and  divine, 
Life's  whitest  sail  ye  still  refuse, 

And  flying  on  before  us  shine 

Upon  some  distant  bark  ye  choose. 

By  night  or  day,  across  the  spray, 

That  sail  is  very  far  away. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS          15 

WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM  (1824-1889) 

ABBEY  ASAROE 

GRAY,  gray  is  Abbey  Asaroe,   by  Ballyshanny 
town, 
It  has  neither  door  nor  window,  the  walls  are 

broken  down ; 

The  carven  stones  lie  scattered  in  briars  and  nettle- 
bed  ; 
The  only  feet  are  those  that  come  at  burial  of  the 

dead. 

A  little  rocky  rivulet  runs  murmuring  to  the  tide, 
Singing   a   song   of  ancient  days,  in  sorrow,  not  in 

pride ; 
The  bore-tree  and  the  lightsome  ash  across  the  portal 

grow, 
And  heaven  itself  is  now  the  roof  of  Abbey  Asaroe. 

It  looks  beyond  the  harbor-stream  to  Gulban  mountain 

blue; 
It  hears  the  voice  of  Erna's  fall, — Atlantic  breakers 

too; 

High  ships  go  sailing  past  it ;  the  sturdy  clank  of  oars 
Brings   in    the   salmon-boat   to  haul  a  net  upon  the 

shores ; 
And  this  way  to  his  home-creek,  when  the  summer 

day  is  done, 

Slow  sculls  the  weary  fisherman  across  the  setting  sun  ; 
While  green  with  corn  is  Sheegus  Hill,  his  cottage 

white  below ; 
But  gray  at  every  season  is  Abbey  Asaroe. 


1 6        THE  GOLDEN  TREASURT  OF 

There  stood  one  day  a  poor  old  man  above  its  broken 

bridge ; 
He   heard   no  running  rivulet,  he  saw  no  mountain 

ridge ; 
He  turned  his  back  on  Sheegus  Hill,  and  viewed  with 

misty  sight 
The    abbey    walls,  the    burial-ground   with    crosses 

ghostly  white ; 
Under  a  weary  weight  of  years  he  bowed  upon  his 

staff, 

Perusing  in  the  present  time  the  former's  epitaph ; 
For,  gray  and  wasted  like  the  walls,  a  figure  full  of 

woe, 
This   man   was  of  the  blood  of  them  who  founded 

Asaroe. 


From  Derry  to  Dundrowas  Tower,  Tirconnell  broad 

was  theirs ; 
Spearmen   and   plunder,  bards   and   wine,  and  holy 

abbot's  prayers ; 
With  chanting  always  in  the  house  which  they  had 

buiided  high 
To  God  and  to  Saint  Bernard, — whereto  they  came  to 

die. 
At  worst,  no  workhouse  grave  for  him  !  the  ruins  of 

his  race 
Shall  rest  among  the  ruined  stones  of  this  their  saintly 

place. 
The  fond  old  man  was  weeping ;  and  tremulous  and 

slow 
Along   the  rough   and   crooked   lane   he  crept  from 

Asaroe. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS         17 

ACROSS  THE  SEA 

I  WALKED  in  the  lonesome  evening, 
And  who  so  sad  as  I, 
When  I  saw  the  young  men  and  maidens 
Merrily  passing  by. 
To  thee,  my  love,  to  thee  — 
So  fain  would  I  come  to  thee  ! 
While  the  ripples  fold  upon  sands  of  gold 
And  I  look  across  the  sea. 

I  stretch  out  my  hands  ;  who  will  clasp  them  ? 

I  call, — thou  repliest  no  word  : 
O  why  should  heart-longing  be  weaker 

Than  the  waving  wings  of  a  bird  ! 

To  thee,  my  love,  to  thee  — 

So  fain  would  I  come  to  thee  ! 
For  the  tide's  at  rest  from  east  to  west, 

And  I  look  across  the  sea. 

There's  joy  in  the  hopeful  morning, 

There's  peace  in  the  parting  day, 
There's  sorrow  with  every  lover 

Whose  true  love  is  far  away, 

To  thee,  my  love,  to  thee  — 

So  fain  would  I  come  to  thee  ! 
And  the  water's  so  bright  in  a  still  moonlight, 

As  I  look  across  the  sea. 


A  DREAM 

I  HEARD  the  dogs  howl  in  the  moonlight  night ; 
I  went  to  the  window  to  see  the  sight ; 
All  the  Dead  that  ever  I  knew 
Going  one  by  one  and  two  by  two. 


1 8        THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

On  they  passed,  and  on  they  passed ; 
Townsfellows  all,  from  first  to  last ; 
Born  in  the  moonlight  of  the  lane, 
Quenched  in  the  heavy  shadow  again. 

Schoolmates,  marching  as  when  we  played 
At  soldiers  once — but  now  more  staid ; 
Those  were  the  strangest  sight  to  me 
Who  were  drowned,  I  knew,  in  the  awful  sea. 

Straight  and  handsome  folk ;  bent  and  weak,  too ; 
Some  that  I  loved,  and  gasped  to  speak  to 
Some  but  a  day  in  their  churchyard  bed ; 
Some  that  I  had  not  known  were  dead. 

A  long,  long  crowd — where  each  seemed  lonely, 
Yet  of  them  all  there  was  one,  one  only, 
Raised  a  head  or  looked  my  way. 
She  lingered  a  moment, — she  might  not  stay. 

How  long  since  I  saw  that  fair  pale  face  ! 
Ah  !  Mother  dear  !  might  I  only  place 
My  head  on  thy  breast,  a  moment  to  rest, 
While  thy  hand  on  my  tearful  cheek  was  prest ! 

On,  on,  a  moving  bridge  they  made 
Across  the  moon-stream,  from  shade  to  shade, 
Young  and  old,  women  and  men ; 
Many  long-forgot,  but  remembered  then. 

And  first  there  came  a  bitter  laughter ; 
A  sound  of  tears  the  moment  after ; 
And  then  a  music  so  lofty  and  gay, 
That  every  morning,  day  by  day, 
I  strive  to  recall  it  if  I  may. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS          19 

AMONG  THE  HEATHER 

ONE  morning,  walking  out,  I  o'ertook  a  modest 
colleen, 
When   the   wind  was   blowing   cool  »and   the 

harvest  leaves  were  falling. 
"Is  our  road  perchance  the  same?     Might  we  travel 

on  together  ?  ' ' 

"Oh,  I  keep  the  mountainside,"  she  replied,  "among 
the  heather." 


"  Your  mountain  air  is  sweet  when  the  days  are  long 
and  sunny, 

When  the  grass  grows  round  the  rocks,  and  the  whin- 
bloom  smells  like  honey ; 

But  the  winter's  coming  fast  with  its  foggy,  snowy 
weather, 

And  you'll  find  it  bleak  and  chill  on  your  hill  among 
the  heather." 

She  praised  her  mountain  home,  and  I'll  praise  it  too 

with  reason, 
For  where  Molly  is   there's  sunshine  and  flowers  at 

every  season. 
Be  the  moorland  black  or  white,  does  it  signify  a 

feather  ? 
Now  I  know  the  way  by  heart,  every  part  among  the 

heather. 

The  sun  goes  down  in  haste,  and  the  night  falls  thick 

and  stormy, 
Yet  I'd  travel  twenty  miles  for  the  welcome  that's 

before  me; 


20        THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

Singing  "Hi  for  Eskydun  !  "    in  the  teeth  of  wind 

and  weather, 
Love' 11  warm  me  as  I  go  through  the  snow  among  the 

heather. 


FOUR  DUCKS  ON  A  POND 

FOUR  ducks  on  a  pond, 
A  grass-bank  beyond, 
A  blue  sky  of  spring, 
White  clouds  on  the  wing : 
What  a  little  thing 
To  remember  for  years, 
To  remember  with  tears  ! 


I 


HALF-WAKING 

THOUGHT  it  was  the  little  bed 

I  slept  in  long  ago ; 
A  straight  white  curtain  at  the  head, 

And  two  smooth  knobs  below. 


I  thought  I  saw  the  nursery  fire, 
And  in  a  chair  well  known 

My  mother  sat,  and  did  not  tire 
With  reading  all  alone. 

If  I  should  make  the  slightest  sound 

To  show  that  I'm  awake, 
She'd  rise,  and  lap  the  blankets  round, 

My  pillow  softly  shake; 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS         21 

Kiss  me,  and  turn  my  face  to  see 

The  shadows  on  the  wall, 
And  then  sing  "Rousseau's  Dream  "  to  me, 

Till  fast  asleep  I  fall. 

But  this  is  not  my  little  bed ; 

That  time  is  far  away ; 
With  strangers  now  I  live  instead, 

From  dreary  day  to  day. 


LOVELY  MARY  DONNELLY 

OH,  lovely  Mary  Donnelly,  it's  you  I  love  the 
best! 
If  fifty  girls  were  round  you  I'd  hardly  see  the 

rest. 
Be  what  it  may  the  time  of  day,  the  place  be  where  it 

will, 

Sweet  looks  of  Mary  Donnelly,  they  bloom  before  me 
still. 

Her  eyes  like  mountain  water  that's  flowing  on  a  rock, 
How  clear  they  are,  how  dark  they  are  !  and  they  give 

me  many  a  shock. 
Red   rowans   warm    in    sunshine   and  wetted  with  a 

show'r, 
Could  ne'er  express  the  charming  lip  that  has  me  in  its 

pow'r. 

Her  nose   is   straight   and   handsome,  her  eyebrows 

lifted  up, 
Her  chin  is  neat  and  pert,  and  smooth,  just  like  a 

china  cup, 


22        THE  GOLDEN  TREASURT  OF 

Her  hair's  the  brag  of.  Ireland,  so  weighty  and  so  fine ; 
It's  rolling  down  upon  her  neck,  and  gathered  in  a 
twine. 

The  dance  o'  last  Whit-Monday  night  exceeded  all 

before, 
No  pretty  girl  for  miles  about  was  missing  from  the 

floor; 
But  Mary  kept  the  belt  of  love,  and  O  but  she  was 

gay! 
She  danced  a  jig,  she  sung  a  song,  that  took  my  heart 

away. 

When  she  stood  up  for  dancing,  her  steps  were  so 

complete, 

The  music  nearly  killed  itself  to  listen  to  her  feet ; 
The  fiddler  moaned  his  blindness,   he  heard  her  so 

much  praised, 
But  blessed  his  luck  to  not  be  deaf  when  once  her 

voice  she  raised. 

And  evermore  I'm  whistling  or  lilting  what  you  sung, 
Your  smile  is  always  in  my  heart,  your  name  beside 

my  tongue ; 
But  you've  as  many  sweethearts  as  you'd  count  on 

both  your  hands, 
And  for  myself  there's  not  a  thumb  or  little  finger 

stands. 

Oh,  you're  the  flower  o'  womankind  in  country  or  in 

town; 
The  higher  I  exalt  you,  the  lower  I'm  cast  down. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS         23 

If  some  great  lord  should  come  this  way,  and  see  your 

beauty  bright, 
And  you  to  be  his  lady,  I'd  own  it  was  but  right. 


O  might  we  live  together  in  a  lofty  palace  hall, 
Where  joyful  music  rises,  and  where  scarlet  curtains 

fall! 
O   might  we  live   together   in    a  cottage  mean  and 

small ; 
With  sods  of  grass  the  only  roof,  and  mud  the  only 

wall! 


O  lovely  Mary  Donnelly,  your  beauty's  my  distress. 
It's  far  too  beauteous  to  be  mine,  but  I'll  never  wish  it 

less. 
The  proudest  place  would  fit  your  face,  and  I  am  poor 

and  low ; 
But  blessings  be  about  you,  dear,  wherever  you  may 

go! 


SPRING  IS  COME 

YE  scan  the  timid  verdure, 
Along  the  hills  of  Spring, 
Blue  skies  and  gentle  breezes, 
And  soft  clouds  wandering  ! 
The  quire  of  birds  on  budding  spray, 

Loud  larks  in  ether  sing ; 
A  fresher  pulse,  a  wider  day, 
Give  joy  to  everything. 


24       THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

The  gay  translucent  morning 

Lies  glittering  on  the  sea, 
The  noonday  sprinkles  shadows 

Athwart  the  daisied  lea ; 
The  round  sun's  falling  scarlet  rim 

In  vapour  hideth  he ; 
The  darkling  hours  are  cool  and  dim 

As  vernal  night  should  be. 

Our  Earth  has  not  grown  aged, 

With  all  her  countless  years ; 
She  works,  and  never  wearies, 

Is  glad  and  nothing  fears  : 
The  glow  of  air,  broad  land  and  wave, 

In  season  reappears ; 
And  shall,  when  slumber  in  the  grave 

These  human  smiles  and  tears. 

Oh,  rich  in  songs  and  colors, 

Thou  joy-reviving  Spring  ! 
Some  hopes  are  chill'd  with  winter 

Whose  term  thou  canst  not  bring, 
Some  voices  answer  not  thy  call 

When  sky  and  woodland  ring, 
Some  faces  come  not  back  at  all 

With  primrose-blossoming. 

The  distant  flying  swallow 

The  upward-yearning  seed, 
Find  Nature's  promise  faithful, 

Attain  their  humble  meed. 
Great  Parent !  thou  hast  also  form'd 

These  hearts  which  throb  and  bleed  ; 
With  love,  truth,  hope,  their  life  hast  warm'd, 

And  what  is  best,  decreed. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS         25 
THE  BAN-SHEE 

A    BALLAD    OF   ANCIENT   ERIN 

"  TTEARD'ST  thou  over  the  Fortress  wild  geese 

flying  and  crying  ? 
Was  it  a  gray  wolf's  howl?  wind   in  the 

forest  sighing  ? 
Wail  from  the  sea  as  of  wreck  ?     Hast  heard  it, 

Comrade?"     "Not  so. 

Here,  all's  still  as  the  grave,  above,  around,  and 
below. 

"  The  Warriors  lie  in  battalion,  spear  and  shield  be- 
side them, 

Tranquil,  whatever  lot  in  the  coming  fray  shall  be- 
tide them. 

See,  where  he  rests,,  the  Glory  of  Erin,  our  Kingly 
Youth  ! 

Closed  his  lion's  eyes,  and  in  sleep  a  smile  on  his 
mouth." 

"  The  cry,  the  dreadful  cry  !  I  know  it — louder  and 
nearer, 

Circling  our  Dun — the  Ban-shee  ! — my  heart  is 
frozen  to  hear  her  ! 

Saw  you  not  in  the  darkness  a  spectral  glimmer  of 
white 

Flitting  away  ? — I  saw  it  1— evil  her  message  to- 
night. 

"  Constant,  but  never  welcome,  she,  to  the  line  of  our 

Chief; 
Bodeful,  baleful,  fateful,  voice  of  terror  and  grief. 


26        THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 

Dimly  burneth  the  lamp — hush  !  again  that  horrible 

•  cry  ! — 

If  a  thousand  lives  could  save  thee,  Tierna,  thou 
shouldest  not  die." 


"Now!  what  whisper  ye,  Clansmen?     I  wake.     Be 

your  words  of  me  ? 
Wherefore  gaze  on  each  other  ?     I  too  have  heard 

the  Ban-shee. 
Death  is  her  message :    but  ye,  be  silent.     Death 

comes  to  no  man 
Sweet  as  to  him  who  in  fighting  crushes  his  country's 

foeman. 


"  Streak  of  dawn  in  the  sky — morning  of  battle.     The 

Stranger 
Camps  on  our  salt-sea  strand  below,  and  recks  not 

his  danger. 
Victory  ! — that  was  my  dream  :    one  that  shall  fill 

men's  ears 
In  story  and  song  of  harp  after  a  thousand  years. 


"  Give  me  my  helmet  and  sword.     Whale-tusk,  gold- 
wrought,  I  clutch  thee  ! 

Blade,  Flesh-Biter,  fail   me  not  this  time  !     Yea, 
•      when  I  touch  thee, 
Shivers  of  joy  run  through  me.     Sing  aloud  as  I 

swing  thee ! 

Glut  of  enemies'  blood,  meseemeth,  to-day  shall  bring 
thee. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS          27 

"Sound  the  horn  !     Behold,  the  Sun  is  beginning  to 

rise. 

Whoso  seeth  him  set,  ours  is  the  victor's  prize, 
When  the  foam  along  the  sand  shall  no  longer  be 

white  but  red  — 
Spoils  and  a  mighty  feast  for  the  Living,  a  earn  for 

the  Dead." 


THE  FAIRIES 
A  CHILD'S  SONG 

UP  the  airy  mountain, 
Down  the  rushy  glen, 
We  daren't  go  a-hunting 
For  fear  of  little  men. 
Wee  folk,  good  folk, 

Trooping  all  together  ; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap, 
And  white  owl's  feather ! 

Down  along  the  rocky  shore 

Some  make  their  home  — 
They  live  on  crispy  pancakes 

Of  yellow  tide-foam ; 
Some  in  the  reeds 

Of  the  black  mountain-lake, 
With  frogs  for  their  watch-dogs, 

All  night  awake. 

High  on  the  hilltop 

The  old  King  sits  ; 
He  is  now  so  old  and  gray, 

He's  nigh  lost  his  wits. 


28        THE  GOLDEN  TREASURT  OF 

With  a  bridge  of  white  mist 

Columbkill  he  crosses, 
On  his  stately  journeys 

From  Slieve-League  to  Rosses ; 
Or  going  up  with  the  music 

On  cold  starry  nights, 
To  sup  with  the  Queen 

Of  the  gay  Northern  Lights. 

They  stole  little  Bridget 

For  seven  years  long; 
When  she  came  down  again, 

Her  friends  were  all  gone. 
They  took  her  lightly  back, 

Between  the  night  and  morrow ; 
They  thought  that  she  was  fast  asleep, 

But  she  was  dead  with  sorrow. 
They  have  kept  her  ever  since 

Deep  within  the  lake, 
On  a  bed  of  flag-leaves, 

Watching  till  she  wake. 

By  the  craggy  hillside, 

Through  the  mosses  bare, 
They  have  planted  thorn-trees, 

For  pleasure  here  and  there. 
Is  any  man  so  daring 

As  dig  them  up  in  spite, 
He  shall  find  their  sharpest  thorns 

In  his  bed  at  night. 

Up  the  airy  mountain, 

Down  the  rushy  glen, 
We  daren't  go  a-hunting 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS         29 

For  fear  of  little  men. 
Wee  folk,  good  folk, 

Trooping  all  together ; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap, 

And  white  owl's  feather  ! 


THE  LEPRECAUN,  OR  FAIRY  SHOEMAKER 

A   RHYME   FOR  CHILDREN 

LITTLE  cowboy,  what  have  you  heard, 
Up  on  the  lonely  rath's  green  mound? 
Only  the  plaintive  yellow-bird 
Singing  in  sultry  fields  around  ? 
Chary,  chary,  chary,  chee-e  ! 
Only  the  grasshopper  and  the  bee  ? 
"  Tip-tap,  rip-rap, 
Tick-a-tack-too  ! 
Scarlet  leather  sewn  together, 

This  will  make  a  shoe. 
Left,  right,  pull  it  tight, 

Summer  days  are  warm; 
Underground  in  winter, 

Laughing  at  the  storm  !  " 
Lay  your  ear  close  to  the  hill : 
Do  you  not  catch  the  tiny  clamor, 
Busy  click  of  an  elfin  hammer, 
Voice  of  the  Leprecaun  singing  shrill 
As  he  merrily  plies  his  trade  ? 

He's  a  span 

And  a  quarter  in  height : 
Get  him  in  sight,  hold  him  fast, 
And  you're  a  made 
Man  ! 


30        THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

You  watch  your  cattle  the  summer  day, 
Sup  on  potatoes,  sleep  in  the  hay ; 
How  should  you  like  to  roll  in  your  carriage 
And  look  for  a  duchess's  daughter  in  marriage  ? 
Seize  the  shoemaker,  so  you  may  ! 
"  Big  boots  a-hunting, 
Sandals  in  the  hall, 
White  for  a  wedding-feast, 

And  pink  for  a  ball : 
This  way,  that  way, 

So  we  make  a  shoe, 
Getting  rich  every  stitch, 

Tick- tack-too  !  " 
Nine-and-ninety  treasure  crocks, 

This  keen  miser-fairy  hath, 
Hid  in  mountain,  wood,  and  rocks, 
Ruin  and  round-tower,  cave  and  rath, 
And  where  the  cormorants  build ; 
From  times  of  old 

Guarded  by  him ; 
Each  of  them  filled 
Full  to  the  brim 
With  gold  ! 

I  caught  him  at  work  one  day  myself, 

In  the  castle-ditch  where  the  foxglove  grows ; 
A  wrinkled,  wizened,  and  bearded  elf, 
Spectacles  stuck  on  the  top  of  his  nose, 
Silver  buckles  to  his  hose, 
Leather  apron,  shoe  in  his  lap ; 

"  Rip-rap,  tip-tap, 

Tick-tack-too  ! 
A  grig  stepped  upon  my  cap, 

Away  the  moth  flew.. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS         31 

Buskins  for  a  fairy  prince, 

Brogues  for  his  son, 
Pay  me  well,  pay  me  well, 

When  the  job's  done." 
The  rogue  was  mine  beyond  a  doubt, 
I  stared  at  him ;  he  stared  at  me  1 
"  Servant,  sir  !  "     "  Humph  !  "  said  he, 
And  pulled  a  snuff-box  out. 

He  took  a  long  pinch,  looked  better  pleased, 

The  queer  little  Leprecaun  ; 
Offered  the  box  with  a  whimsical  grace,  — 
Pouf !  he  flung  the  dust  in  my  face,  — 
And,  while  I  sneezed, 
Was  gone  ! 

THE  LOVER  AND  BIRDS 

WITHIN  a  budding  grove, 
In  April's  ear  sang  every  bird  his  best, 
But  not  a  song  to  pleasure  my  unrest, 
Or  touch  the  tears  unwept  of  bitter  love  ; 
Some  spake,  methought,  with  pity,  some  as  if  in  jest. 
To  every  word, 
Of  every  bird, 
I  listened  or  replied  as  it  behove. 

Screamed  Chaffinch,  "  Sweet,  sweet,  sweet ! 
Pretty  lovey,  come  and  meet  me  here  1 " 
"Chaffinch,"  quoth  I,  "be  dumb  awhile,  in  fear 

Thy  darling  prove  no  better  than  a  cheat 
And  never  come,  or  fly,  when  wintry  days  appear." 
Yet  from  a  twig, 
With  voice  so  big, 
The  little  fowl  his  utterance  did  repeat. 


32        THE  GOLDEN  TREASURT  OF 

Then  I,  "The  man  forlorn, 
Hears  earth  send  up  a  foolish  noise  aloft." 
"  And  what'll  he  do?     What'll  he  do?  "  scoffed 

The  Blackbird,  standing  in  an  ancient  thorn, 

Then  spread  his  sooty  wings  and  flitted  to  the  croft, 

With  cackling  laugh, 

Whom,  I,  being  half 

Enraged,  called  after,  giving  back  his  scorn. 

Worse  mocked  the  Thrush,  "  Die  !  die  ! 
Oh,  could  he  do  it  ?     Could  he  do  it  ?     Nay  ! 
Be  quick  !  be  quick  !     Here,  here,  here  ! ' '  (went  his 

lay) 
"Take  heed  !  take  heed  !  "  then,  "Why?  Why? 

Why?    Why?    Why? 

See-See   now!  see-ee   now!"  (he  drawled)  "Back! 
Back  !     Back  !     R-r-r-run  away  !  " 
Oh,  Thrush,  be  still, 
Or  at  thy  will 
Seek  some  less  sad  interpreter  than  I ! 

"  Air  !  air  !  blue  air  and  white  ! 
Whither  I  flee,  whither,  O  whither,  O  whither  I  flee  !  " 
(Thus  the  Lark  hurried,  mounting  from  the  lea) 

"  Hills,  countries,  many  waters  glittering  bright 
Whither  I  see,  whither  I  see  !    Deeper,  deeper,  deeper, 
whither  I  see,  see,  see  !  " 
•   "Gay  Lark,"  I  said, 

"The  song  that's  bred 
In  happy  nest  may  well  to  heaven  take  flight!" 

"  There's  something,  something  sad, 
I  half  remember,"  piped  a  broken  strain  ; 
Well  sung,  sweet  Robin  !  Robin,  sing  again. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS         33 

"Spring's   opening    cheerily,    cheerily!    be   we 

glad  !  " 

Which  moved,  I  wist  not  why,  me  melancholy  mad, 
Till  now,  grown  meek, 
With  wetted  cheek, 
Most  comforting  and  gentle  thoughts  I  had. 


o 


THE  MILKMAID 

H,  where  are  you  going  so  early  ?  he  said ; 
Good  luck  go  with  you,  my  pretty  maid ; 
To  tell  you  my  mind  I'm  half  afraid  — 
But  I  wish  I  were  your  sweetheart. 
When  the  morning  sun  is  shining  low, 
And  the  cocks  in  every  farmyard  crow, 
I'll  carry  your  pail, 
O'er  hill  and  dale, 
And  I'll  go  with  you  a-milking. 

I'm  going  a-milking,  sir,  says  she, 
Through  the  dew,  and  across  the  lea ; 
You  ne'er  would  even  yourself  to  me, 
Or  take  me  for  your  sweetheart. 
When  the  morning  sun,  etc. 

Now  give  me  your  milking-stool  a  while, 
To  carry  it  down  to  yonder  stile ; 
I'm  wishing  every  step  a  mile, 
And  myself  your  only  sweetheart. 
When  the  morning  sun,  etc. 


34        THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

Oh,  here's  the  stile  in  under  the  tree, 
And  there's  the  path  in  the  grass  for  me, 
And  I  thank  you  kindly,  sir,  says  she, 
And  wish  you  a  better  sweetheart. 
When  the  morning  sun,  etc. 


Now  give  me  your  milking-pail,  says  he, 
And  while  we're  going  across  the  lea, 
Pray  reckon  your  master's  cows  to  me, 
Although  I'm  not  your  sweetheart. 
When  the  morning  sun,  etc. 


Two  of  them  red,  and  two  of  them  white, 
Two  of  them  yellow,  and  silky  bright : 
She  told  him  her  master's  cows  aright, 
Though  he  was  not  her  sweetheart. 
When  the  morning  sun,  etc. 


She  sat  and  milk'd  in  the  morning  sun, 
And  when  her  milking  was  over  and  done, 
She  found  him  waiting,  all  as  one 
As  if  he  were  her  sweetheart. 
When  the  morning  sun,  etc. 


He  freely  offer'd  her  his  heart  and  hand  : 
Now  she  has  a  farm  at  her  command, 
And  cows  of  her  own  to  graze  the  land  : 
Success  to  all  true  sweethearts  ! 
When  the  morning  sun,  etc. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS         35 

THE  RUINED  CHAPEL 

BY  the  shore,  a  plot  of  ground 
Clips  a  ruined  chapel  round, 
Buttressed  with  a  grassy  mound, 
Where  Day  and  Night  and  Day  go  by, 
And  bring  no  touch  of  human  sound. 


Washing  of  the  lonely  seas, 
Shaking  of  the  guardian  trees, 
Piping  of  the  salted  breeze ; 

Day  and  Night  and  Day  go  by, 
To  the  endless  tune  of  these. 


Or  when,  as  winds  and  waters  keep 
A  hush  more  dead  than  any  sleep, 
Still  morns  to  stiller  evenings  creep, 

And  Day  and  Night  and  Day  go  by ; 
Here  the  silence  is  most  deep. 


The  empty  ruins,  lapsed  again 

Into  Nature's  wide  domain, 

Sow  themselves  with  seed  and  grain 

As  Day  and  Night  and  Day  go  by ; 
And  hoard  June's  sun  and  April's  rain. 

Here  fresh  funeral  tears  were  shed  ; 

Now  the  graves  are  also  dead ; 

And  suckers  from  the  ash-tree  spread, 

While  Day  and  Night  and  Day  go  by 
And  stars  move  calmly  overhead. 


36        THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 

THE  SAILOR 

THOU  that  hast  a  daughter 
For  one  to  woo  and  wed, 
Give  her  to  a  husband 

With  snow  upon  his  head ; 
Oh,  give  her  to  an  old  man, 

Though  little  joy  it  be, 

Before  the  best  young  sailor 

That  sails  upon  the  sea ! 

How  luckless  is  the  sailor 

When  sick  and  like  to  die  ! 
He  sees  no  tender  mother, 

No  sweetheart  standing  by. 
Only  the  captain  speaks  to  him  — 

Stand  up,  stand  up,  young  man 
And  steer  the  ship  to  haven, 

As  none  beside  thee  can. 

Thou  sayest  to  me,  "Stand  up,  stand  up;  " 

I  say  to  thee,  take  hold 
Lift  me  a  little  from  the  deck, 

My  hands  and  feet  are  cold. 
And  let  my  head,  I  pray  thee 

With  handkerchief  be  bound  : 
There,  take  my  love's  own  handkerchief, 

And  tie  it  tightly  round. 

Now  bring  the  chart,  the  doleful  chart ; 

See  where  these  mountains  meet — 
The  clouds  are  thick  around  their  head, 

The  mists  around  their  feet : 
Cast  anchor  here ;   'tis  deep  and  safe      * 

Within  the  rocky  cleft 


37 


The  little  anchor  on  the  right 
The  great  one  on  the  left. 

And  now  to  thee,  O  captain, 

Most  earnestly  I  pray, 
That  they  may  never  bury  me 

In  church  or  cloister  gray;  — 
But  on  the  windy  sea-beach, 

At  the  ending  of  the  land, 
All  on  the  surfy  sea-beach, 

Deep  down  into  the  sand. 

For  there  will  come  the  sailors, 

Their  voices  I  shall  hear, 
And  at  casting  of  the  anchor 

The  yo-ho  loud  and  clear; 
And  at  hauling  of  the  anchor 

The  yo-ho  and  the  cheer  — 
Farewell  my  love,  for  to  thy  bay 

I  nevermore  may  steer. 

THE  WINDING  BANKS  OF  ERNE ; 
OR,  THE  EMIGRANT'S  ADIEU  TO  BALLY- 
SHANNON 

A  LOCAL  BALLAD 


ADIEU  to  Belashanny  !    where  I  was  bred  and 
born; 
Go  where  I  may,  I'll  think  of  you,  as  sure  as 

night  and  morn  — 

The  kindly  spot,  the  friendly  town,  where  every  one 
is  known, 


38        THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

And  not  a  face  in  all  the  place  but  partly  seems  my 

own ; 
There's  not  a  house  or  window,  there's  not  a  field  or 

hill, 
But,  east  or  west,  in  foreign  lands,  I'll  recollect  them 

still. 
I  leave  my  warm  heart  with  you,  tho'  my  back  I'm 

forced  to  turn  — 
So  adieu  to  Belashanny,  and  the  winding  banks  of 

Erne! 


No  more  on  pleasant  evenings  we'll  saunter  down  the 

Mall, 
When  the  trout  is  rising  to  the  fly,  the  salmon  to  the 

fall. 
The  boat  comes  straining  on  her  net,  and  heavily  she 

creeps. 
Cast  off !  cast  off !  she  feels  the  oars,  and  to  her  berth 

she  sweeps ; 
Now  fore  and  aft  keep  hauling,  and  gathering  up  the 

clew, 

Till  a  silver  wave  of  salmon  rolls  in  among  the  crew. 
Then  they  may  sit,  with  pipes  a-lit,  and  many  a  joke 

and  "  yarn  " — 
Adieu  to  Belashanny,  and  the  winding  banks  of  Erne  ! 

in 

The  music  of  the  waterfall,  the  mirror  of  the  tide, 
When  all  the  green-hill'd  harbour  is  full  from  side  to 

side  — 
From  Portnasun  to  Bulliebawns,  and  round  the  Abbey 

Bay, 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS         39 

From  rocky  Inis  Saimer  to  Coolnargit  sand-hills  gray ; 
While  far  upon  the  southern  line,  to  guard  it  like  a 

wall, 
The  Leitrim   mountains  clothed  in  blue,  gaze  calmly 

over  all, 
And  watch  the  ship  sail  up  or  down,  the  red  flag  at 

her  stern  — 
Adieu  to  these,  adieu  to  all  the  winding  banks  of 

Erne  ! 

IV 

Farewell  to  you,  Kildoney  lads,  and  them  that  pull  an 

oar, 
A  lug-sail  set,  or  haul  a  net,  from  the  Point  to  Mul- 

laghmore ; 

From  Killybegs  to  bold   Slieve-League,  that  ocean- 
mountain  steep, 
Six  hundred  yards  in  air  aloft,  six  hundred  in  the 

deep, 
From   Dooran   to   the  Fairy  Bridge,  and  round  by 

Tullen  strand, 
Level  and  long,  and  white  with  waves,  where  gull  and 

curlew  stand ; 
Head  out  to  sea  when  on  your  lee  the  breakers  you 

discern  — 
Adieu  to  all  the  billowy  coast  and  winding  banks  of 

Erne ! 


Farewell,   Coolmore !    Bundoran !    and  your  summer 

crowds  that  run 
From  inland  homes  to  see  with  joy  th'  Atlantic-setting 

sun : 


40       THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

To  breathe  the  buoyant  salted  air,  and  sport  among 

the  waves ; 
To  gather  shells  on   sandy   beach,    and   tempt   the 

gloomy  caves ; 
To  watch  the  flowing,   ebbing  tide,   the  boats,  the 

crabs,  the  fish ; 
Young  men  and  maids  to  meet  and  smile,  and  form  a 

tender  wish ; 
The  sick  and  old  in  search  of  health,  for  all  things 

have  their  turn  — 
And  I  must  quit  my  native  shore  and  the  winding 

banks  of  Erne ! 

VI 

Farewell  to  every  white  cascade  from  the  Harbour  to 

Belleek, 
And  every  pool  where  fins  may  rest,  and  ivy-shaded 

creek ; 
The  sloping  fields,  the  lofty  rocks,  where  ash  and 

holly  grow, 
The  one  split  yew-tree  gazing  on  the  curving  flood 

below ; 
The  Lough,  that  winds  through  islands  under  Turaw 

mountain  green; 
And  Castle  Caldwell's  stretching  woods,  with  tranquil 

bays  between ; 
And  Breesie  Hill,  and  many  a  pond  among  the  heath 

and  fern  — 
For  I  must  say  adieu — adieu  to  the  winding  banks  of 

Erne! 

VII 

The  thrush  will  call  through  Camlin  groves  the  live- 
long summer  day ; 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS         41 

The  waters  run  by  mossy  cliff,  and  bank  with  wild 

flowers  gay ; 
The  girls  will  bring  their  work  and  sing  beneath  a 

twisted  thorn, 
Or  stray  with  sweethearts  down  the  path  among  the 

growing  corn ; 
Along   the  riverside   they  go,   where    I    have  often 

been  — 
Oh  !   never  shall  I  see  again  the  days  that  I  have 

seen ! 

A  thousand  chances  are,  to  one  I  never  may  return  — 
Adieu  to  Belashanny,  and  the  winding  banks  of  Erne. 

VIII 

Adieu   to   evening   dances,   when   merry  neighbours 

meet, 
And  the  fiddle  says  to  boys  and  girls  :   "  Get  up  and 

shake  your  feet !  " 
To  "shanachus"  and  wise  old   talk  of  Erin's  days 

gone  by  — 
Who  trench'd  the  rath  on  such  a  hill,  and  where  the 

bones  may  lie 
Of  saint,  or  king,  or  warrior  chief;  with  tales  of  fairy 

power, 
And  tender  ditties  sweetly  sung  to  pass  the  twilight 

hour. 

The  mournful  song  of  exile  is  now  for  me  to  learn  — 
Adieu,  my  dear  companions  on  the  winding  banks  of 

Erne  ! 

IX 

Now  measure  from  the  Commons  down  to  each  end 
of  the  Purt, 


42        THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

Round  the  Abbey,  Moy,  and  Knather — I  wish  no  one 

any  hurt ; 
The  Main  Street,  Back  Street,  College  Lane,  the  Mall, 

and  Portnasun, 

If  any  foes  of  mine  are  there,  I  pardon  every  one. 
I  hope  that  man  and  womankind  will  do  the  same  by 

me ; 

For  my  heart  is  sore  and  heavy  at  voyaging  the  sea. 
My  loving  friends  I'll  bear  in  mind,  and  often  fondly 

turn 
To  think  of  Belashanny,  and  the  winding  banks  of 

Erne. 


If  ever  I'm  a  money' d  man,  I  mean,  please  God,  to 

cast 
My  golden  anchor  in  the  place  where  youthful  years 

were  pass'd ; 
Though  heads  that  now  are  black  and  brown  must 

meanwhile  gather  gray, 
New  faces  rise  by  every  hearth,  and  old  ones  drop 

away  — 
Yet   dearer   still    that   Irish  hill  than  all  the  world 

beside ; 
It's   home,   sweet    home,   where'er   I   roam,  through 

lands  and  waters  wide. 

And  if  the  Lord  allows  me,  I  surely  will  return 
To  my  native  Belashanny,  and  the  winding  banks  of 

Erne. 


H 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS          43 


WINDLASS  SONG 

EAVE   at   the  windlass ! — Heave   O,  cheerly, 

men  ! 

Heave  all  at  once,  with  a  will ! 
The  tide's  quickly  making, 
Our  cordage  is  creaking, 
The  water  has  put  on  a  frill, 
Heave  O  ! 


Fare-you-well,  sweethearts  ! — Heave  O,  cheerly,  men  ! 
Shore  gambarado  and  sport ! 
The  good  ship  all  ready, 
Each  dog-vane  is  steady, 
The  wind  blowing  dead  out  of  port, 
Heave  O  ! 


Once  in  blue  water — Heave  O,  cheerly,  men  ! 
Blow  it  from  north  or  from  south  ; 
She'll  stand  to  it  tightly, 
And  curtsy  politely, 
And  carry  a  bone  in  her  mouth, 
Heave  O ! 


Short  cruise  or  long  cruise — Heave  O,  cheerly,  men  ! 
Jolly  Jack  Tar  thinks  it  one, 
No  latitude  dreads  he 
Of  White,  Black,  or  Red  sea, 
Great  icebergs,  or  tropical  sun, 
Heave  O ! 


44        THE  GOLDEN  TREASURT  OF 

One  other  turn,  and  Heave  O,  cheerly,  men  ! 
Heave,  and  good-bye  to  the  shore  ! 
Our  money,  how  went  it  ? 
We  shared  it  and  spent  it ; 
Next  year  we'll  come  back  with  some  more, 
Heave  O  ! 


H 


WINNING 

ER  blue  eyes  they  beam  and  they  twinkle, 
Her  lips  have  made  smiling  more  fair; 
On  cheek  and  on  brow  there's  no  wrinkle, 
But  thousands  of  curls  in  her  hair. 


She's  little, — you  don't  wish  her  taller; 

Just  half  through  the  teens  is  her  age  ; 
And  baby  or  lady  to  call  her, 

Were  something  to  puzzle  a  sage  ! 

Her  walk  is  far  better  than  dancing  ; 

She  speaks  as  another  might  sing  ; 
And  all  by  an  innocent  chancing, 

Like  lambkins  and  birds  in  the  spring. 

Unskill'd  in  the  airs  of  the  city, 
She's  perfect  in  natural  grace ; 

She's  gentle  and  truthful  and  witty, 

And  ne'er  spends  a  thought  on  her  face 

Her  face,  with  the  fine  glow  that's  in  it, 
As  fresh  as  an  apple-tree  bloom  ; 

And  oh  !  when  she  comes,  in  a  minute, 
Like  sunbeams  she  brightens  the  room. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS         45 

As  taking  in  mind  and  in  feature, 

How  many  will  sigh  for  her  sake  ! 
I  wonder — the  sweet  little  creature  — 

What  sort  of  a  wife  she  would  make. 


WISHING 

RING-TING  !     I  wish  I  were  a  Primrose 
A  bright  yellow  Primrose  blowing  in  the 
Spring  ! 

The  stooping  boughs  above  me, 
The  wandering  bee  to  love  me, 
The  fern  and  moss  to  keep  across, 
And  the  Elm-tree  for  our  king  ! 

Nay — nay  !     I  wish  I  were  an  Elm-tree, 
A  great  lofty  Elm-tree,  with  green  leaves  gay  1 
The  wind  would  set  them  dancing, 
The  sun  and  moonshine  glance  in, 
The  Birds  would  house  among  the  boughs, 
And  sweetly  sing  ! 

O — no  !     I  wish  I  were  a  Robin, 
A  Robin  or  a  little  Wren,  everywhere  to  go ; 
Through  forest,  field  or  garden, 
And  ask  no  leave  or  pardon, 
Till  winter  comes  with  icy  thumbs 
To  ruffle  up  our  wing. 

Well— tell !     Where  should  I  fly  to, 
Where  go  to  sleep  in  the  dark  wood  or  dell  ? 
Before  a  day  was  over, 
Home  comes  the  rover, 
For  Mother's  kiss — sweeter  this 
Than  any  other  thing  ! 


46        THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 


JOHN  ANSTER 
(1798-1867) 


T 


HE  summer  sun  was  sinking 

With  a  mild  light,  calm  and  mellow ; 
It  shone  on  my  little  boy's  bonnie  cheeks, 
And  his  loose  locks  of  yellow. 


The  robin  was  singing  sweetly, 

And  his  song  was  sad  and  tender, 
And  my  little  boy's  eyes,  while  he  heard  the  song, 

Smiled  with  a  sweet,  soft  splendor. 

My  little  boy  lay  on  my  bosom 

While  his  soul  the  song  was  quaffing; 

The  joy  of  his  soul  had  tinged  his  cheek, 
And  his  heart  and  his  eye  were  laughing. 

I  sate  alone  in  my  cottage, 

The  midnight  needle  plying ; 
I  feared  for  my  child,  for  the  rush's  light 

In  the  socket  now  was  dying  ; 

Then  came  a  hand  to  my  lonely  latch, 
Like  the  wind  at  midnight  moaning ; 

I  knelt  to  pray,  but  rose  again 

For  I  heard  my  little  boy  groaning. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LTRICS         47 

I  crossed  my  brow  and  I  crossed  my  breast, 
But  that  night  my  child  departed,  — 

They  left  a  weakling  in  his  stead, 
And  I  am  broken-hearted  ! 

O,  it  cannot  be  my  own  sweet  boy, 

For  his  eyes  are  dim  and  hollow, 
My  little  boy  is  gone — is  gone, 

And  his  mother  soon  will  follow. 

The  dirge  for  the  dead  will  be  sung  for  me, 

And  the  mass  be  chanted  meetly, 
And  I  shall  sleep  with  my  little  boy, 

In  the  moonlight  churchyard  sweetly. 


48        THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 


JOHN  FRANCIS  ARMSTRONG 

(1841-1865) 


I 


ADIEU 

HEAR  a  distant  clarion  blare, 

The  smoldering  battle  flames  anew 
A  noise  of  onset  shakes  the  air  — 
Dear  woods  and  quiet  vales,  adieu  ! 


Weird  crag,  where  I  was  wont  to  gaze 

On  the  far  sea's  aerial  hue, 
Below  a  veil  of  glimmering  haze 

At  morning's  breezy  prime — adieu  I 

Clear  runnel,  bubbling  under  boughs 
Of  odorous  lime  and  darkling  yew, 

Where  I  have  lain  on  banks  of  flowers 
And  dreamed  the  livelong  noon — adieu  1 

And,  ah  !   ye  lights  and  shades  that  ray 
Those  orbs  of  brightest  summer  blue, 

That  haunted  me  by  night  and  day 
For  happy  moons — adieu  !  adieu  ! 


ON  Euripides'  plays  we  debated, 
In  College,  one  chill  winter  night ; 
A  student  rose  up,  while  we  waited 
For  more  intellectual  light. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS         49 

As  he  stood,  pale  and  anxious,  before  us, 
Three  words,  like  a  soft  summer  wind, 

Went  past  us  and  through  us  and  o'er  us  — 
A  whisper  low-breathed  :   "  He  is  blind  !  " 

And  in  many  a  face  there  was  pityA 

In  many  an  eye  there  were  tears ; 
For  his  words  were  not  buoyant  or  witty, 

As  fitted  his  fresh  summer  years. 
And  he  spoke  once  or  twice,  as  none  other 

Could  speak,  of  a  woman's  pure  ways  — 
He  remembered  the  face  of  his  mother 

Ere  darkness  had  blighted  his  days. 


50        THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURr  OF 


JOHN  BANIM 
(1798-1844) 

AILEEN 

''TT^IS  not  for  love  of  gold  I  go, 
•  'Tis  not  for  love  of  fame ; 
Though  fortune  should  her  smile  bestow, 
And  I  may  win  a  name, 

Aileen ; 
And  I  may  win  a  name. 

And  yet  it  is  for  gold  I  go, 

And  yet  it  is  for  fame, 
That  they  may  deck  another  brow, 

And  bless  another  name, 
Aileen ; 

And  bless  another  name. 

For  this,  but  this,  I  go :  for  this 

I  lose  thy  love  awhile, 
And  all  the  soft  and  quiet  bliss 

Of  thy  young  faithful  smile, 
Aileen ; 

Of  thy  young  faithful  smile. 

And  I  go  to  brave  a  world  I  hate, 

And  woo  it  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  tempt  a  wave  and  try  a  fate, 

Upon  a  stranger  shore, 
Aileen ; 

Upon  a  stranger  shore. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS         51 

Oh,  when  the  bays  are  all  my  own, 

I  know  a  heart  will  care, 
Oh,  when  the  gold  is  wooed  and  won, 

1  know  a  brow  shall  wear, 
Aileen ; 

I  know  a  brow  shall  wear. 

And  when  with  both  returned  again, 

My  native  land  to  see, 
I  know  a  smile  will  meet  me  then, 

And  a  hand  will  welcome  me, 
Aileen ; 

A  hand  will  welcome  me. 


SOGGARTH  AROON1 

AM  I  the  slave  they  say, 
Soggarth  aroon  ? 
Since  you  did  show  the  way, 
Soggarth  aroon, 
Their  slave  no  more  to  be, 
While  they  would  work  with  me 
Ireland's  slavery, 
Soggarth  aroon  ! 

Loyal  and  brave  to  you, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Yet  be  not  slave  to  you, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Nor,  out  of  fear  to  you, 
Stand  up  so  near  to  you  — 
Och  !  out  of  fear  to  you, 

Soggarth  aroon  ! 

1  Soggarth  aroon,  "  Priest,  dear." 


52        THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURr  OF 

Who,  in  the  winter's  night, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
When  the  cold  blast  did  bite, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Came  to  my  cabin  door, 
And,  on  the  earthen  floor, 
Knelt  by  me,  sick  and  poor, 

Soggarth  aroon  ? 

Who,  on  the  marriage  day, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Made  the  poor  cabin  gay, 

Soggarth  aroon  ? 
And  did  both  laugh  and  sing, 
Making  our  hearts  to  ring, 
At  the  poor  christening, 

Soggarth  aroon  ? 

Who,  as  friend  only  met, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Never  did  flout  me  yet, 

Soggarth  aroon  ? 
And  when  my  heart  was  dim 
Gave,  while  his  eye  did  brim, 
What  I  should  give  to  him, 

Soggarth  aroon  ? 

Och,  you  and  only  you, 

Soggarth  aroon  ! 
And  for  this  I  was  true  to  you, 

Soggarth  aroon  ; 
In  love  they'll  never  shake, 
When  for  Old  Ireland's  sake 
We  a  true  part  did  take, 

Soggarth  aroon  / 


T 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS         53 

THE  FETCH ' 

HE  mother  died  when  the  child  was  born, 

And  left  me  her  baby  to  keep ; 
I  rocked  its  cradle  the  night  and  morn, 
And  silent  hung  o'er  it  to  weep. 


'Twas  a  sickly  child  through  its  infancy, 

Its  cheeks  were  so  ashy  pale, 
Till  it  broke  from  my  arms  to  walk  in  glee 

Out  in  the  sharp,  fresh  gale. 

And  then  my  little  girl  grew  strong, 

And  laughed  the  hours  away; 
Or  sung  me  the  merry  lark's  mountain  song, 

Which  he  taught  her  at  break  of  day. 

When  she  wreathed  her  hair  in  thicket  bowers, 
With  the  hedge-rose  and  harebell  blue, 

I  called  her  my  May  in  her  crown  of  flowers, 
.With  her  smile  so  soft  and  new. 

And  the  rose,  I  thought,  never  shamed  her  cheek, 

But  rosy  and  rosier  made  it ; 
And  her  eye  of  blue  did  more  brightly  break 

Through  the  bluebell  that  strove  to  shade  it. 

One  evening  I  left  her  asleep  in  her  smiles, 
And  walked  through  the  mountains  lonely ; 

I  was  far  from  my  darling,  ah  !  many  long  miles, 
And  I  thought  of  her,  and  her  only. 

1  The  Fetch  is  the  apparition  of  a  person  doomed  to  death. 


54       THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

She  darkened  my  path  like  a  troubled  dream, 

In  that  solitude  far  and  drear  ; 
I  spoke  to  my  child,  but  she  did  not  seem 

To  hearken  with  human  ear. 

She  only  looked  with  a  dead,  dead  eye, 
And  a  wan,  wan  cheek  of  sorrow. 

I  knew  her  Fetch  ;  she  was  called  to  die, 
And  she  died  upon  the  morrow. 


THE  IRISH  MOTHER  IN  THE  PENAL  DAYS 

NOW    welcome,    welcome,    baby-boy,    unto     a 
mother's  fears, 
The  pleasure  of  her  sufferings,  the  rainbow  of 

her  tears, 
The  object  of  your  father's  hope,   in  all  he  hopes 

to  do, 
A  future  man  of  his  own  land,  to  live  him  o'er  anew  ! 


How  fondly  on  thy  little  brow  "a  mother's  eye  would 

trace, 

And  in  thy  little  limbs,  and  in  each  feature  of  thy  face, 
His   beauty,   worth,   and  manliness,   and  everything 

that's  his, 
Except,  my  boy,  the  answering  mark  of  where  the 

fetter  is  ! 

Oh  !  many  a  weary  hundred  years  his  sires  that  fetter 

wore, 
And  he  has  worn  it  since  the  day  that  him  his  mother 

bore; 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS         55 

And  now,  my  son,  it  waits  on  you,  the  moment  you 

are  born, 
The  old  hereditary  badge  of  suffering  and  scorn  ! 

Alas,  my  boy  so  beautiful ! — alas,  my  love  so  brave  ! 
And  must  your  gallant  Irish  limbs  still  drag  it  to  the 

grave  ? 
And  you,  my  son,  yet  have  a  son,  foredoomed  a  slave 

to  be, 
Whose  mother  still  must  weep  o'er  him  the  tears  I 

weep  o'er  thee ! 


56        THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 


JANE  BARLOW 
(1857-         ) 

THE  FLITTING  OF  THE  FAIRIES 

From  the  "  End  of  Elfintown." 
****** 

THEN  Oberon  spake  the  word  of  might 
That  set  the  enchanted  cars  in  sight ; 
But  love  I  lack,  to  tell  aright 
Where  these  had  waited  hidden. 
Perchance  the  clear  airs  round  us  rolled 
In  secret  cells  did  them  enfold, 
Like  evening  dew  that  none  behold 
Till  to  the  sward  'tis  slidden. 

And  who  can  say  what  wizardize 

Had  fashioned  them  in  marvelous  wise, 

And  given  them  power  to  stoop  and  rise 

More  high  than  thought  hath  traveled  ? 
Somewhat  of  cloud  their  frames  consist, 
But  more  of  meteor's  luminous  mist, 
All  girt  with  strands  of  seven-hued  twist 

From  rainbow's  verge  unraveled. 

'Tis  said,  and  I  believe  it  well, 
That  whoso  mounts  their  magic  selle, 
Goes,  if  he  list,  invisible 

Beneath  the  broadest  moonlight ; 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS         57 

That  virtue  comes  of  Faery-fern, 
Lone-lived  where  hill-slopes  starward  turn 
Thro'  frore  night  hours  that  bid  it  burn 
Flame-fronded  in  the  moonlight ; 


For  this  holds  true — too  true,  alas  ! 
The  sky  that  eve  was  clear  as  glass, 
Yet  no  man  saw  the  Faeries  pass 

Where  azure  pathways  glisten ; 
And  true  it  is — too  true,  ay  me  — 
That  nevermore  on  lawn  or  lea 
Shall  mortal  man  a  Faery  see, 

Though  long  he  look  and  listen. 


Only  the  twilit  woods  among 

A  wild-winged  breeze  hath  sometimes  flung 

Dim  echoes  borne  from  strains  soft-sung 

Beyond  sky-reaches  hollow  ; 
Still  further,  fainter  up  the  height, 
Receding  past  the  deep-zoned  night  — 
Far  chant  of  Fays  who  lead  that  flight, 

Faint  call  of  Fays  who  follow  : 


(Fays following.}     Red-rose  mists  o'erdrift 

Moth-moon's  glimmeringwhite, 
Lit  by  sheen-silled  west 
Barred  with  fiery  bar  ; 
Fleeting,  following  swift, 
Whither  across  the  night 
Seek  we  bourne  of  rest  ? 

(fays  leading.}     Afar. 


58        THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 

(Fays  following.)     Vailing  crest  on  crest 

Down  the  shadowy  height, 
Earth  with  shores  and  seas 
Dropt,  a  dwindling  gleam. 
Dusk,  and  bowery  nest, 
Dawn,  and  dells  dew-bright, 
What  shall  bide  of  these? 

(Fays  leading.)     A  dream. 

(Fays following.)     Fled,  ah  !  fled,  our  sight. 
Yea,  but  thrills  of  fire 
Throbbed  adown  yon  deep, 
Faint  and  very  far 
Who  shall  rede  aright  ? 
Say,  what  wafts  us  nigher, 
Beckoning  up  the  steep  ? 

(Fays  leading. )     A  star. 

(Fays  following.)     List,  a  star  !  a  star  ! 
Oh,  our  goal  of  light ! 
Yet  the  winged  shades  sweep, 
Yet  the  void  looms  vast. 
Weary  our  wild  dreams  are : 
When  shall  cease  our  flight 
Soft  on  shores  of  sleep  ? 

(Fays  leading.)     At  last. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS         59 


MICHAEL  JOSEPH  BARRY 

(1817-1889) 

THE  PLACE  WHERE  MAN  SHOULD  DIE 

HOW  little  recks  it  where  men  lie, 
When  once  the  moment's  past 
In  which  the  dim  and  glazing  eye 
Has  looked  on  earth  its  last, — 
Whether  beneath  the  sculptured  urn 

The  Coffined  form  shall  rest, 
Or  in  its  nakedness  return 
Back  to  its  mother's  breast ! 

Death  is  a  common  friend  or  foe, 

As  different  men  may  hold, 
And  at  his  summons  each  must  go, 

The  timid  and  the  bold ; 
But  when  the  spirit,  free  and  warm, 

Deserts  it,  as  it  must, 
What  matter  where  the  lifeless  form 

Dissolves  again  to  dust  ? 

The  soldier  falls  'mid  corses  piled 

Upon  the  battle-plain, 
Where  reinless  war-steeds  gallop  wild 

Above  the  mangled  slain ; 
But  though  his  corse  be  grim  to  see, 

Hoof-trampled  on  the  sod, 
What  recks  it,  when  the  spirit  free 

Has  soared  aloft  to  God  ? 


60        THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

The  coward's  dying  eyes  may  close 

Upon  his  downy  bed, 
And  softest  hands  his  limbs  compose, 

Or  garments  o'er  them  spread. 
But  ye  who  shun  the  bloody  fray, 

When  fall  the  mangled  brave, 
Go — strip  his  coffin-lid  away, 

And  see  him  in  his  grave  ! 

'Twere  sweet,  indeed,  to  close  our  eyes, 

With  those  we  cherish  near, 
And,  wafted  upwards  by  their  sighs, 

Soar  to  some  calmer  sphere. 
But  whether  on  the  scaffold  high, 

Or  in  the  battle's  van, 
The  fittest  place  where  man  can  die 

Is  where  he  dies  for  man  ! 


THE  SWORD 

WHAT  rights  the  brave  ? 
The  sword  ! 
What  frees  the  slave? 

The  sword  ! 
What  cleaves  in  twain 
The  despot's  chain, 

And  makes  his  gyves  and  dungeons  vain  ? 
The  sword  ! 

CHORUS 

Then  cease  thy  proud  task  never 
While  rests  a  link  to  sever  ! 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS         61 

Guard  of  the  free, 
We'll  cherish  thee, 
And  keep  thee  bright  forever  1 

What  checks  the  knave? 

The  sword ! 
What  smites  to  save  ? 

The  sword  ! 

What  wreaks  the  wrong 
Unpunished  long, 
At  last,  upon  the  guilty  strong  ? 

The  sword  ! 

CHORUS 
Then  cease  thy  proud  task  never,  etc. 

What  shelters  Right  ? 
The  sword ! 
What  makes  it  might  ? 
The  sword ! 
What  strikes  the  crown 
Of  tyrants  down, 

And  answers  with  its  flash  their  frown  ? 
The  sword  ! 

CHORUS 

Then  cease  thy  proud  task  never,  etc. 

Still  be  thou  true, 

Good  sword  ! 
We'll  die  or  do, 

Good  sword ! 


62        THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 

Leap  forth  to  light 
If  tyrants  smite, 

And  trust  our  arms  to  wield  thee  right, 
Good  sword ! 

CHORUS 

Yes  !  cease  thy  proud  task  never 
While  rests  a  link  to  sever  ! 

Guard  of  the  free, 

We'll  cherish  thee,- 
And  keep  thee  bright  forever ! 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS         63 


FLORENCE  BEAMISH 

(Living) 

SLEEP  ON 

SLEEP  on,  for  I  know  'tis  of  me  you  are  dreaming, 
Sleep  on,  till  the  sun  comes  to  give  you  a  call, 
Though  the  pride  of  my  heart  is  to  see  your  eye 

beaming, 

Yet  still  to  be  dreamt  of  is  better  than  all. 
For  then  'tis  to  yours  that  my  heart's  always  speaking, 

And  then  'tis  the  spell  that  enchains  it  gives  way, 
And  reveals  all  the  love  that  I  never,  when  waking, 
Could  get  round  my  tongue  in  the  daylight  to  say. 

Yes,  sleep  on,  mavourneen,  my  joy,  and  my  treasure, 

Not  often  does  sleep  get  a  comrade  so  fair, 
And  no  wonder  it  is  that  his  eye  takes  a  pleasure 

To  watch  by  your  pillow  while  you  slumber  there. 
Then  sleep — softly  sleep,  till  the  day-dawn  is  breaking, 

And  peeps  in  to  give  you  a  smile  and  a  call, 
For  though  great  as  my  joy  is  to  see  you  when  waking. 

Yet  still  to  be  dreamt  of  is  better  than  all  1 


GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 


GEORGE  BERKELEY,  BISHOP  OF  CLOYN  E 

(1684-1753) 

ON  THE  PROSPECT  OF  PLANTING  ARTS 
AND  LEARNING  IN  AMERICA 


T 


HE  Muse,  disgusted  at  an  age  and  clime 

Barren  of  every  glorious  theme, 
In  distant  lands  now  waits  a  better  time 
Producing  subjects  worthy  fame : 


In  happy  climes,  where  from  the  genial  sun 
And  virgin  earth  such  scenes  ensue, 

The  force  of  art  by  nature  seems  outdone, 
And  fancied  beauties  by  the  true. 

In  happy  climes,  the  seat  of  innocence, 
Where  nature  guides  and  virtue  rules ; 

When  men  shall  not  impose  for  truth  and  sense 
The  pedantry  of  courts  and  schools ; 

There  shall  be  sung  another  golden  age, 

The  rise  of  empire  and  of  arts, 
The  good  and  great  inspiring  epic  rage 

The  wisest  heads  and  noblest  hearts. 

Not  such  as  Europe  breeds  in  her  decay — 
Such  as  she  bred  when  fresh  and  young, 

When  heavenly  flame  did  animate  her  clay, 
By  future  poets  shall  be  sung. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS         65 

Westward  the  course  of  empire  takes  its  way, 

The  four  first  acts  already  past ; 
A  fifth  shall  close  the  drama  with  the  day  — 

Time's  noblest  offspring  is  the  last. 


66        THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 


ISAAC  BICKERSTAFF 
(1735-1812) 

SONG 

From  "  Love  in  a  Village  " 

THERE  was  a  jolly  miller  once, 
Lived  on  the  river  Dee ; 
He  worked  and  sang,  from  morn  to 

night ; 

No  lark  so  blithe  as  he. 
And  this  the  burden  of  his  song, 

Forever  used  to  be, — 
"  I  care  for  nobody,  not  I, 
If  no  one  cares  for  me." 

TWO  SONGS 
From  "  Thomas  and  Sally,  or  the  Sailor's  Return  " 


M 


Y  time  how  happy  once  and  gay ! 

Oh  !  blithe  I  was  as  blithe  could  be 
But  now  I'm  sad,  ah,  well-a-day ! 
For  my  true  love  is  gone  to  sea. 


The  lads  pursue,  I  strive  to  shun  ; 

Though  all  their  arts  are  lost  on  me ; 
For  I  can  never  love  but  one, 

And  he,  alas  !  has  gone  to  sea. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS         67 

They  bid  me  to  the  wake,  the  fair, 

To  dances  on  the  neighboring  lea : 
But  how  can  I  in  pleasure  share, 
.     While  my  true  love  is  out  at  sea  ? 

The  flowers  droop  till  light's  return, 
The  pigeon  mourns  its  absent  she ; 

So  will  I  droop,  so  will  I  mourn, 

Till  my  true  love  comes  back  from  sea. 

II 

How  happy  is  the  sailor's  life, 

From  coast  to  coast  to  roam ; 
In  every  port  he  finds  a  wife, 

In  every  land  a  home. 
He  loves  to  range,  he's  nowhere  strange; 

He  ne'er  will  turn  his  back 
To  friend  or  foe ;  no,  masters,  no ; 

My  life  for  honest  Jack. 

If  saucy  foes  dare  make  a  noise, 

And  to  the  sword  appeal ; 
We  out,  and  quickly  larn  'em,  boys, 

With  whom  they  have  to  deal. 
We  know  no  craft  but  'fore  and  aft, 

Lay  on  our  strokes  amain ; 
Then,  if  they're  stout,  for  't'other  bout, 

We  drub  'em  o'er  again. 

Or  fair  or  foul,  let  Fortune  blow, 

Our  hearts  are  never  dull ; 
The  pocket  that  to-day  ebbs  low, 

To-morrow  shall  be  full  j 


68        THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

For  if  so  be,  we  want,  d'  ye  see  ? 

A  pluck  of  this  here  stuff, 
In  Indi — a,  and  Americ — a, 

We're  sure  to  find  enough. 

Then  bless  the  king,  and  bless  the  state, 

And  bless  our  captains  all ; 
And  ne'er  may  chance  unfortunate 

The  British  fleet  befall. 
But  prosp-'rous  gales,  where'er  she  sails, 

And  ever  may  she  ride, 
Of  sea  and  shore,  till  time's  no  more, 

The  terror  and  the  pride. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS         69 


MARY  ELIZABETH  BLAKE,  ncc  McGRATH 
(1840-        ) 

THE  DAWNING  O'  THE  YEAR 

ALL  ye  who  love  the  spring-time — and  who  but 
loves  it  well 
When  the  little  birds  do  sing,  and  the  buds  be- 
gin to  swell ! — 
Think  not  ye  ken  its  beauty,  or  know   its  face  so 

dear, 

Till  ye  look  upon  old  Ireland  in  the  dawning  o'  the 
year ! 

For  where  in  all  the  earth  is  there  any  joy  like  this, 
When  the  skylark  sings  and  soars  like  a  spirit  into 

bliss, 
While  the  thrushes  in  the  bush  strain  their  small  brown 

mottled  throats, 
Making  all  the  air  rejoice  with  their  clear  and  mellow 

notes ; 

And  the  blackbird  on  the  hedge  in  the  golden  sunset 

glow 
Trills  with  saucy,  side-tipped  head  to  the  bonny  nest 

below ; 
And  the  dancing  wind  slips  down  through  the  leaves 

of  the  boreen , 
And  all  the  world  rejoices  in  the  wearing  o'  the  green  ! 


yo       THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

For  'tis  green,  green,  green,  where  the  ruined  towers 

are  gray, 
And  it's  green,  green,  green,  all  the  happy  night  and 

day; 
Green  of  leaf  and  green  of  sod,  green  of  ivy  on  the 

wall, 
And  the  blessed  Irish  shamrock  with  the  fairest  green 

of  all. 

There  the  primrose  breath  is  sweet,  and  the  yellow 

gorse  is  set 
A  crown  of  shining  gold  on  the  headlands  brown  and 

wet; 
Not  a  nook  of  all  the  land  but  the  daisies  make  to 

glow, 
And  the  happy  violets  pray  in  their  hidden  cells  below. 

And  it's  there  the  earth  is  merry,  like  a  young  thing 

newly  made 
Running  wild  amid  the  blossoms  in  the  field  and  in 

the  glade, 
Babbling  ever  into  music  under  skies  with  soft  clouds 

piled, 
Like  the  laughter  and  the  tears  in  the  blue  eyes  of  a 

child. 

But  the  green,  green,  green,  O  'tis  that  is  blithe  and 

fair  ! 
In  the  fells  and  on  the  hills,  gay  and  gladsome  as  the 

air, 
Lying  warm  above  the  bog,  floating  brave  on  crag  and 

glen, 
Thrusting  forty  banners  high  where  another  land  has 

ten. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS         71 

Sure  Mother  Nature  knows  of  her  sore  and  heavy 

grief, 

And  thus  with  soft  caress  would  give  solace  and  relief; 
Would  fold  her  close  in  loveliness  to  keep  her  from 

the  cold, 
And  clasp  the  mantle  o'er  her  heart  with  emeralds  and 

gold. 


So  ye  who  love  the  spring-time, — and  who  but  loves 

it  well 
When  the  little  birds  do  sing,  and  the  buds  begin  to 

swell ! — 

Think  not  ye  ken  its  beauty  or  know  its  face  so  dear 
Till  ye  meet  it  in  old  Ireland  in  the  dawning  o'  the 

year  ! 


THE  FIRST  STEPS 

TO-NIGHT  as  the  tender  gloaming 
Was  sinking  in  evening's  gloom, 
And  only  the  blaze  of  the  firelight 
Brightened  the  dark'ning  room, 
I  laughed  with  the  gay  heart  gladness 

That  only  to  mothers  is  known, 
For  the  beautiful  brown-eyed  baby 
Took  his  first  steps  alone  ! 

Hurriedly  running  to  meet  him 

Came  trooping  the  household  band, 

Joyous,  loving,  and  eager 

To  reach  him  a  helping  hand, 


72        THE  GOLDEN  TREASURT  OF 

To  watch  him  with  silent  rapture, 
To  cheer  him  with  happy  noise, — 

My  one  little  fair-faced  daughter 
And  four  brown  romping  boys. 


Leaving  the  sheltering  arms 

That  fain  would  bid  him  rest 
Close  to  the  love  and  the  longing, 

Near  to  the  mother's  breast, — 
Wild  with  daring  and  laughter, 

Looking  askance  at  me, 
He  stumbled  across  through  the  shadows 

To  rest  at  his  father's  knee. 


Baby,  my  dainty  darling, 

Stepping  so  brave  and  bright 
With  flutter  of  lace  and  ribbon 

Out  of  my  arms  to-night, 
Helped  in  thy  pretty  ambition 

With  tenderness  blessed  to  see, 
Sheltered,  upheld,  and  protected  - 

How  will  the  last  steps  be  ? 


See,  we  are  all  beside  you, 

Urging  and  beckoning  on, 
Watching  lest  aught  betide  you 

Till  the  safe,  near  goal  is  won, 
Guiding  the  faltering  footsteps 

That  tremble  and  fear  to  fall  — 
How  will  it  be,  my  darling, 

With  the  last  sad  step  of  all  ? 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LTRICS         73 

Nay  !  shall  I  dare  to  question, 

Knowing  that  One  more  fond 
Than  all  our  tenderest  loving 

Will  guide  the  weak  feet  beyond  ! 
And  knowing  beside,  my  dearest, 

That  whenever  the  summons,  'twill  be 
But  a  stumbling  step  through  the  shadow 

Then  rest — at  the  Father's  knee  ! 


74       THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 


DION  BOUCICAULT 
(1822-1890) 

SONG 

Supposed  to  be  sung  by  a  young  woman,  whose  child  had 
died  in  Ireland. 


I 


'M  very  happy  where  I  am, 

Far  across  the  say  — 
I'm  very  happy  far  from  home, 
In  North  Amerikay. 


It's  lonely  in  the  night  when  Pat 

Is  sleeping  by  my  side. 
I  lie  awake,  and  no  one  knows 

The  big  tears  that  I've  cried. 

For  a  little  voice  still  calls  me  back 
To  my  far,  far  counthrie, 

And  nobody  can  hear  it  spake  — 
Oh  !  nobody  but  me. 

There  is  a  little  spot  of  ground 

Behind  the  chapel  wall ; 
It's  nothing  but  a  tiny  mound, 

Without  a  stone  at  all ; 

It  rises  like  my  heart  just  now, 

It  makes  a  dawny  hill ; 
It's  from  below  the  voice  comes  out, 

I  cannot  kape  it  still. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS         75 

Oh  !  little  Voice,  ye  call  me  back 

To  my  far,  far  counthrie, 
And  nobody  can  hear  ye  spake  — 

Oh  !  nobody  but  me. 


76        THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 


THOMAS  BOYD 
(1867-        ) 

TO  THE  LEANAN  SIDHE 


w 


HERE  is  thy  lovely  perilous  abode  ? 

In  what  strange  phantom-land 
Glimmer  the  fairy  turrets  whereto  rode 
The  ill-starred  poet  band  ? 


Say,  in  the  Isle  of  Youth  hast  thou  thy  home, 

The  sweetest  singer  there, 
Stealing  on  winged  steed  across  the  foam 

Through  the  moonlit  air? 

Or,  where  the  mists  of  bluebell  float  beneath 

The  red  stems  of  the  pine, 
And  sunbeams  strike  thro'  shadow,  dost  thou  breathe 

The  word  that  makes  him  thine  ? 

Or  by  the  gloomy  peaks  of  Erigal, 

Haunted  by  storm  and  cloud, 
Wing  past,  and  to  thy  lover  there  let  fall 

His  singing-robe  and  shroud  ? 

Or  is  thy  palace  entered  thro'  some  cliff 

When  radiant  tides  are  full, 
And  round  thy  lover's  wandering,  starlit  skiff, 

Coil  in  luxurious  lull  ? 

>  Leandn  Sidhe  (Lenawn  SAfe),  "  The  Fairy  Bride." 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS         77 

And  would  he,  entering  on  the  brimming  flood, 

See  caverns  vast  in  height, 
And  diamond  columns,  crowned  with  leaf  and  bud, 

Glow  in  long  lanes  of  light, 

And  there,  the  pearl  of  that  great  glittering  shell 

Trembling,  behold  thee  lone, 
Now  weaving  in  slow  dance  an  awful  spell, 

Now  still  upon  thy  throne  ? 

Thy  beauty  !  ah,  the  eyes  that  pierce  him  thro' 

Then  melt  as  in  a  dream ; 
The  voice  that  sings  the  mysteries  of  the  blue 

And  all  that  Be  and  Seem  ! 

Thy  lovely  motions  answering  to  the  rhyme 

That  ancient  Nature  sings, 
That  keeps  the  stars  in  cadence  for  all  time, 

And  echoes  thro*  all  things  ! 

Whether  he  sees  thee  thus,  or  in  his  dreams, 

Thy  light  makes  all  lights  dim  ; 
An  aching  solitude  from  henceforth  seems 

The  world  of  men  to  him. 

Thy  luring  song,  above  the  sensuous  roar, 

He  follows  with  delight, 
Shutting  behind  him  Life's  last  gloomy  door. 

And  fares  into  the  Night. 


78        THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 


WILLIAM  BOYLE 
(1853-        ) 

PHILANDERING 

MAUREEN,  acushla,  ah  !  why  such  a  frown  on 
you! 
Sure,  'tis  your  own  purty  smiles  should  be 

there, 
Under  those  ringlets  that  make  such  a  crown  on  you, 

'As  the  sweet  angels  themselves  seem  to  wear, 
When  from  the  picthers  in  church  they  look  down  on 
you, 

Kneeling  in  prayer. 

Troth,  no,  you  needn't,  there  isn't  a  drop  on  me, 

Barrin'  one  half-one  to  keep  out  the  cowld ; 
And,  Maureen,  if  you'll  throw  a  smile  on  the  top  o' 

me, 

Half-one  was  never  so  sweet,  I'll  make  bowld. 
But,  if  you  like,  dear,  at  once  put  a  stop  on  me 
Life  with  a  scowld. 

Red-haired  Kate  Ryan  ? — Don't  mention  her  name  to 

me  ! 

I've  a  taste,  Maureen  darlin',  whatever  I  do. 
But  I  kissed  her  ? — Ah,  now,  would  you  even  that 

same  to  me  ?  — 

Ye  saw  me  !     Well,  well,  if  ye  did,  sure  it's  true, 
But  I  don't  want  herself  or  her  cows,  and  small  blame 
to  me 

When  I  know  you. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS         79 

There  now,  aroon,  put  an  ind  to  this  strife  o'  me 

Poor  frightened  heart,  my  own  Maureen,  my  duck ; 
Troth,  till  the  day  comes  when  you'll  be  made  wife  o' 

me, 

Night,  noon,  and  mornin',  my  heajt'll  be  bruck. 
Kiss  me,  acushla  !     My  darlin'  !     The  life  o'  me  ! 
One  more  for  luck  ! 


80        THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 


JOSEPH  BRENAN 

(1828-1857) 

COME  TO  ME,  DEAREST 

COME  to  me,  dearest,  I'm  lonely  without  thee; 
Day-time  and  night-time  I'm  thinking  about  thee; 
Night-time  and  day-time  in  dreams  I  behold  thee, 
Unwelcome  the  waking  that  ceases  to  fold  thee. 
Come  to  me,  darling,  my  sorrows  to  lighten, 
Come  in  thy  beauty  to  bless  and  to  brighten, 
Come  in  thy  womanhood,  meekly  and  lowly, 
Come  in  thy  lovingness,  queenly  and  holy. 

Swallows  shall  flit  round  the  desolate  ruin, 
Telling  of  spring  and  its  joyous  renewing ; 
And  thoughts  of  thy  love,  and  its  manifold  treasure, 
Are  circling  my  heart  with  a  promise  of  pleasure ; 
O  Spring  of  my  spirit !  O  May  of  my  bosom  ! 
Shine  out  on  my  soul  till  it  burgeon  and  blossom  — 
The  waste  of  my  life  has  a  rose-root  within  it, 
And  thy  fondness  alone  to  the  sunshine  can  win  it. 

Figure  that  moves  like  a  song  through  the  even  — 
Features  lit  up  by  a  reflex  of  heaven  — 
Eyes  like  the  skies  of  poor  Erin,  our  mother, 
Where  sunshine  and  shadows  are  chasing  each  other ; 
Smiles  coming  seldom,  but  childlike  and  simple, 
And  opening  their  eyes  from  the  heart  of  a  dimple  — 
O  thanks  to  the  Saviour  that  even  thy  seeming 
Is  left  to  the  exile  to  brighten  his  dreaming  I 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS         81 

You  have  been  glad  when  you  knew  I  was  gladdened ; 
Dear,  are  you  sad  now  to  hear  I  am  saddened  ? 
As  octave  to  octave  and  rhyme  unto  rhyme,  love, 
Our  hearts  always  answer  in  tune  and  in  time,  love ; 
I  cannot  weep  but  your  tears  will  be  flowing  — 
You  cannot  smile  but  my  cheeks  will  be  glowing  — 
I  would  not  die  without  you  at  my  side,  love  — 
You  will  not  linger  when  I  shall  have  died,  love. 

Come  to  me,  dear,  ere  I  die  of  my  sorrow ; 
Rise  on  my  gloom  like  the  sun  of  to-morrow  , 
Strong,  swift,  and  fond  as  the  words  that  I  speak,  love, 
With  a  song  on  your  lip  and  a  smile  on  your  cheek, 

love. 

Come,  for  my  heart  in  your  absence  is  dreary ; 
Haste,  for  my  spirit  is  sickened  and  weary ; 
Come  to  the  arms  that  alone  should  caress  thee ; 
Come  to  the  heart  that  is  throbbing  to  press  thee  ! 


82        THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURr  OF 


CHARLOTTE  BROOKE 

(1740-1793) 

PULSE  OF  MY  HEART 

Miss  Brooke  did  much  to  rescue  ancient  Irish  poetry  from 
oblivion,  although  her  classic  style  of  language  obscured  the 
local  colour  and  national  distinctiveness  of  the  original.  This 
fragment  is  more  literal  than  some  of  her  work. 

AS  the  sweet  blackberry's  modest  bloom, 
Fair  flowering,  greets  the  sight, 
Or  strawberries  in  their  rich  perfume 

Fragrance  and  bloom  unite  : 
So  this  fair  plant  of  tender  youth 

In  outward  charms  can  vie, 
And  from  within  the  soul  of  truth, 
Soft  beaming,  fills  her  eye. 

Pulse  of  my  heart  !  dear  source  of  care, 

Stolen  sighs,  and  loved-breathed  vows ! 
Sweeter  than  when  through  scented  air 

Gay  bloom  the  apple  boughs  ! 
With  thee  no  day  can  winter  seem, 

Nor  frost  nor  blast  can  chill ; 
Thou  the  soft  breeze,  the  cheering  beam, 

That  keeps  it  summer  still. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS         83 


STOPFORD  AUGUSTUS  BROOKE 
(1832-        ) 

THE  NOBLE  LAY  OF  AILLINN 

After  an  Irish  tale  from  the  "  Book  of  Leinster." 

iRINCE  BA1LE  of  Ulster  rode  out  in  the  morn 

To  meet  his  love  at  the  ford ; 
And  he  loved  her  better  than  lands  or  life, 
And  dearer  than  his  sword. 

And  she  was  Aillinn,  fair  as  the  sea, 

The  Prince  of  Leinster's  daughter, 
And  she  longed  for  him  more  than  a  wounded  man, 

Who  sees  death,  longs  for  water. 

They  sent  a  message  each  to  each : 

"  Oh,  meet  me  near  or  far ;  " 
And  the  ford  divided  the  kingdoms  two, 

And  the  kings  were  both  at  war. 

And  the  Prince  came  first  to  the  water's  pass, 

And  oh,  he  thought  no  ill : 
When  he  saw  with  pain  a  great  gray  man 

Come  striding  o'er  the  hill. 

His  cloak  was  the  ragged  thunder-cloud, 

And  his  cap  the  whirling  snow, 
And  his  eyes  were  the  lightning  in  the  storm, 

And  his  horn  he  'gan  to  blow. 


84       THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

"What  news,  what  news,  them  great  gray  man  ? 

I  fear  'tis  ill  with  me." 
"  Oh,  Aillinn  is  dead,  and  her  lips  are  cold, 

And  she  died  for  loving  thee." 

And  he  looked  and  saw  no  more  the  man, 

But  a  trail  of  driving  rain. 
"  Woe  !  woe  !  "  he  cried,  and  took  his  sword 

And  drave  his  heart  in  twain. 

And  out  of  his  blood  burst  forth  a  spring, 
And  a  yew-tree  out  of  hi.s  breast ; 

And  it  grew  so  deep,  and  it  grew  so  high, 
The  doves  came  there  to  rest. 

But  Aillinn  was  coming  to  keep  her  tryst, 

The  hour  her  lover  fell ; 
And  she  rode  as  fast  as  the  western  wind 

Across  the  heathery  hill. 

Behind  her  flew  her  loosened  hair, 

Her  happy  heart  did  beat ; 
When  she  was  'ware  of  a  cloud  of  storm 

Came  driving  down  the  street. 

And  out  of  it  stepped  a  great  gray  man, 
And  his  cap  was  peaked  with  snow  • 

The  fire  of  death  was  in  his  eyes, 
And  he  'gan  his  horn  to  blow. 

"  What  news,  what  news,  thou  great  gray  man  ? 

And  is  it  ill  to  me  ?  " 
"  Oh,  Baile  the  Prince  is  dead  at  the  ford, 

And  he  died  for  loving  thee." 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS         85 

Pale,  pale  she  grew,  and  two  large  tears 

Dropped  down  like  heavy  rain, 
And  she  fell  to  earth  with  a  woeful  cry, 

For  she  broke  her  heart  in  twain. 

And  out  of  her  tears  two  fountains  rose 

That  watered  all  the  ground, 
And  out  of  her  heart  an  apple-tree  grew 

That  heard  the  water's  sound. 

Oh,  woe  were  the  kings,  and  woe  were  the  queens, 

And  woe  were  the  people  all ; 
And  the  poets  sang  their  love  and  their  death 

In  cottage  and  in  hall. 

And  the  men  of  Ulster  a  tablet  made 

From  the  wood  of  Baile's  tree, 
And  the  men  of  Leinster  did  the  like 

Of  Aillinn's  apple-tree. 

And  on  the  one  the  poets  wrote 

The  lover-tales  of  Leinster, 
And  on  the  other  all  the  deeds 

That  lovers  wrought  in  Ulster. 

Now  when  a  hundred  years  had  gone 

The  King  of  all  the  land 
Kept  feast  at  Tara,  and  he  bade 

His  poets  sing  a  strand. 

They  sang  the  sweet  unhappy  tale, 

Tlit  noble  Aillinn's  lay. 
"  Go,  bring  the  tablets,"  cried  the  King 

"  For  I  have  wept  to-day." 


86        THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

But  when  he  held  in  his  right  hand 

The  wood  of  Baile's  tree 
And  in  his  left  the  tablet  smooth 

From  Aillinn's  apple-tree, 

The  lovers  in  the  wood  who  kept 

Love-longing  ever  true, 
Knew  one  another,  and  at  once 

From  the  hands  of  the  king  they  flew. 

As  ivy  to  the  oak  they  clung, 
Their  kiss  no  man  could  sever  — 

Oh,  joy  for  lovers  parted  long 
To  meet,  at  last,  forever  J 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS         87 


FRANCES  BROWNE 
(1816-1879) 

O  THE  PLEASANT  DAYS  OF  OLD! 

OTHE  pleasant  days  of  old,  which  so  often  people 
praise ! 
True,  they  wanted  all  the  luxuries  that  grace 

our  modern  days : 
Bare  floors  were  strewed  with  rushes,  the  walls  let  in 

the  cold ; 

O !  how  they  must  have  shivered  in  those  pleasant 
days  of  old  ! 

O !  those  ancient  lords  of  old,  how  magnificent  they 

were ! 
They  threw  down  and  imprisoned  kings, — to  thwart 

them  who  might  dare  ? 
They  ruled  their  serfs  right  sternly ;  they  took  from 

Jew  their  gold, — 
Above  both  law  and  equity  were  those  great  lords  of 

old! 

O  the  gallant  knights  of  old,  for  their  valour  so  re- 
nowned ! 

With  sword  and  lance  and  armour  strong  they  scoured 
the  country  round ; 

And  whenever  aught  to  tempt  them  they  met  by  wood 
or  wold, 

By  right  of  sword  they  seized  the  prize, — those  gallant 
knights  of  old ! 


88        THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURr  OF 

O  the  gentle  dames  of  old  !  who,  quite  free  from  fear 

or  pain, 
Could  gaze  on  joust  and  tournament,  and  see  their 

champion  slain ; 
They  lived  on  good  beefsteaks  and  ale,  which  made 

.  them  strong  and  bold, — 
O  more  like  men  than  women  were  those  gentle  dames 

of  old  ! 

O  those  mighty  towers  of  old  !  with  their  turrets,  moat 

and  keep, 
Their  battlements  and  bastions,  their  dungeons  dark 

and  deep. 
Full  many  a  baron  held  his  court  within  the  castle 

hold; 
And  many  a  captive  languished  there,  in  those  strong 

towers  of  old  ! 

O  the  troubadours  of  old  !  with  the  gentle  minstrelsie 

Of  hope  and  joy,  or  deep  despair,  whiche'er  their  lot 
may  be; 

For  years  they  served  their  lady-loves  ere  they  their 
passions  told, — 

O  wondrous  patience  must  have  had  those  trouba- 
dours of  old  ! 

0  those  blessed  times  of  old  !  with  their  chivalry  and 

state  ! 

1  love  to  read  their  chronicles,  which  such  brave  deeds 

relate ; 
I   love   to   sing  their  ancient  rhymes,   to  hear  their 

legends  told, — 
But,  Heaven  be  thanked  !  I  lived  not  in  those  blessed 

times  of  old  ! 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS         89 

THE  LAST  FRIENDS 

One  of  the  United  Irishmen,  who  lately  returned  to  his  native 
country  after  many  years  of  exile,  being  asked  what  had  in- 
duced  him  to  visit  Ireland,  when  all  his  friends  were  gone, 
answered,  "  I  came  back  to  see  the  mountains." — Author's  note. 

I  COME  to  my  country,  but  not  with  the  hope 
That  brightened  my  youth  like  the  cloud  light- 
ing bow ; 
For  the  vigour  of  soul  that  seemed  mighty  to  cope 

With  time  and  with  fortune  hath  fled  from  me  now, 
And  love  that  illumined  my  wanderings  of  yore 

Hath  perished,  and  left  but  a  weary  regret 
For  the  star  that  can  rise  on  my  midnight  no  more, — 
But  the  hills  of  my  country  they  welcome  me  yet. 

The  hue  of  their  verdure  was  fresh  with  me  still, 

When  my  path  was  afar  by  the  Tanais'  lone  track ; 
From  the  wide-spreading  deserts  and  ruins  that  fill 

The  lands  of  old  story,  they  summoned  me  back ; 
They  rose  on  my  dreams  through  the  shades  of  the 
West, 

They  breathed  upon  sands  which  the  dew  never  wet ; 
For  the  echoes  were  hushed  in  the  home  I  loved  best, 

And  I  knew  that  the  mountains  would  welcome  me 
yet. 

The  dust  of  my  kindred  is  scattered  afar, — 

They  lie  in  the  desert,  the  wild,  and  the  wave; 
For  serving  the  strangers  through  wandering  and  war, 

The  isle  of  their  memory  could  grant  them  no  grave. 
And  I,  I  return  with  the  memory  of  years 

Whose  hope  rose  so  high,  though  in  sorrow  it  set ; 
They  have  left  on  my  soul  but  the  trace  of  their  tears, 

But  our  mountains  remember  their  promises  yet. 


90        THE  GOLDEN  TREASURT  OF 

O  where  are  the  brave  hearts  that  bounded  of  old  ? 

And  where  are  the  faces  my  childhood  has  seen  ? 
For  fair  brows  are  furrowed,  and  hearts  have  grown 
cold, 

But  our  streams  are  still  bright,  and  our  hills  are 

still  green. 
Ay,  green  as  they  rose  to  the  eyes  of  my  youth, 

When  brothers  in  heart  in  their  shadows  we  met ; 
And  the  hills  have  no  memory  of  shadow  or  death, 

For  their  summits  are  sacred  to  liberty  yet. 

Like  ocean  retiring  the  morning  mists  now 

Roll  back  from  the  mountains  that  girdle  our  land  ; 
And  sunlight  encircles  each  heath-covered  brow 

For  which  time  hath  no  furrow  and  tyrants  no  brand. 
O  thus  let  it  be  with  the  hearts  of  the  isle  ! 

Efface  the  dark  seal  that  oppression  has  set ; 
Give  back  the  lost  glory  again  to  the  soil, 

For  the  hills  of  my  country  remember  it  yet. 


WHAT  HATH  TIME  TAKEN? 

WHAT  hath  Time  taken  ?     Stars,  that  shone 
On  the  early  years  of  earth, 
And  the  ancient  hills  they  looked  upon, 
Where  a  thousand  streams  had  'birth ; 
Forests  that  were  the  young  world's  dower, 

With  their  long-unfading  trees ; 
And  the  halls  of  wealth,  and  the  thrones  of  power  — 
He  hath  taken  more  than  these. 

He  hath  taken  away  the  heart  of  youth, 
And  its  gladness,  which  hath  been 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS         91 

Like  the  sutnmer  sunshine  o'er  our  path, 

Making  the  desert  green ; 
The  shrines  of  an  early  hope  and  love, 

And  the  flowers  of  every  clime, 
The  wise,  the  beautiful,  the  brave, 

Thou  hast  taken  from  us,  Time ! 

What  hath  Time  left  us  ?  desolate 

Cities,  and  temples  lone, 
And  the  mighty  works  of  genius,  yet 

Glorious,  when  all  are  gone ; 
And  the  lights  of  memory,  lingering  long, 

As  the  eve  on  western  seas  — 
Treasures  of  science,  thought,  and  song  — 

He  hath  left  us  more  than  these. 

He  hath  left  us  a  lesson  of  the  past, 

In  the  shades  of  perished  years ; 
He  hath  left  us  the  heart's  high  places  waste, 

And  its  rainbows  fallen  in  tears. 
But  there's  hope  for  the  earth  and  her  children  still, 

Unwithered  by  woe  or  crime, 
And  a  heritage  of  rest  for  all, 

Thou  hast  left  us  these,  oh  Time  1 


92        THE  GOLDEN  TREASURT  OF 


KEVIN  T.  BUGGY 

(1816-1843) 

THE  SAXON  SHILLING1 

HARK  !  a  martial  sound  is  heard  — 
The  march  of  soldiers,  fifing,  drumming ; 
Eyes  are  staring,  hearts  are  stirred  — 

For  bold  recruits  the  brave  are  coming, 
Ribands  flaunting,  feathers  gay  — 

The  sounds  and  sights  are  surely  thrilling. 
Dazzled  village  youths  to-day 

Will  crowd  to  take  the  Saxon  Shilling. 

Ye  whose  spirits  will  not  bow 

In  peace  to  parish  tyrants  longer  — 
Ye,  who  wear  the  villein  brow, 

And  ye  who  pine  in  hopeless  hunger  — 
Fools,  without  the  brave  man's  faith  — 

All  slaves  and  starvelings  who  are  willing 
To  sell  themselves  to  shame  and  death  — 

Accept  the  fatal  Saxon  Shilling. 

1  Refers  to  the  English  custom  when  recruiting  for  the  army. 
The  acceptance  of  a  shilling  (twenty-five  cents)  from  the  recruit- 
ing sergeant  constitutes  the  act  of  enlisting,  and  in  the  old  days 
many  a  poor  fellow  has  been  so  plied  with  drink  that  he  has 
awakened  from  his  sleep  to  find  a  shilling  in  his  hand  and  the 
Queen's  colours  (ribbons  of  red,  white,  and  blue)  pinned  to  his 
hat  or  on  his  breast;  sure  signs  that  he  had  "  'listed  for  a  soger," 
even  though  he  had  forgotten  about  it. — C.  W. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS         93 

Ere  you  from  your  mountains  go 

To  feel  the  scourge  of  foreign  fever, 
Swear  to  serve  the  faithless  foe 

That  lures  you  from  your  land  forever  ! 
Swear  henceforth  its  tools  to  be  — 

To  slaughter  trained  by  ceaseless  drilling  — 
Honour,  home,  and  liberty, 

Abandoned  for  a  Saxon  Shilling. 

Go — to  find,  mid  crime  and  toil, 

The  doom  to  which  such  guilt  is  hurried ; 
Go — to  leave  on  Indian  soil 

Your  bones  to  bleach,  accursed,  unburied  ! 
Go — to  crush  the  just  and  brave, 

Whose  wrongs  with  wrath  the  world  is  filling ; 
Go — to  slay  each  brother  slave 

Or  spurn  the  blood-stained  Saxon  Shilling  ! 

Irish  hearts  !  why  should  you  bleed 

To  swell  the  tide  of  British  glory  — 
Aiding  despots  in  their  need, 

Who've  changed  our  green  so  oft  to  gory  ! 
None,  save  those  who  wish  to  see 

The  noblest  killed,  the  meanest  killing, 
And  true  hearts  severed  from  the  free, 

Will  take  again  the  Saxon  Shilling! 

Irish  youths  !  reserve  your  strength 

Until  an  hour  of  glorious  duty, 
When  Freedom's  smile  shall  cheer  at  length 

The  land  of  bravery  and  beauty. 
Bribes  and  threats,  oh,  heed  no  more  — 

Let  nought  but  Justice  make  you  willing 
To  leave  your  own  dear  Island  shore, 

For  those  who  send  the  Saxon  Shilling. 


94        THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 


JAMES  JOSEPH  CALLANAN 
(1795-1829) 

AND  MUST  WE  PART? 

AND  must  we  part  ?  then  fare  thee  well ! 
But  he  that  wails  it — he  can  tell 
How  dear  thou  wert,  how  dear  thou  art 
And  ever  must  be,  to  this  heart : 
But  now  'tis  vain — it  cannot  be ; 
Farewell !  and  think  no  more  on  me. 

Oh  !  yes — this  heart  would  sooner  break 

Than  one  unholy  thought  awake ; 

I'd  sooner  slumber  into  clay 

Than  cloud  thy  spirit's  beauteous  ray; 

Go,  free  as  air — as  angel  free, 

And,  lady,  think  no  more  on  me. 

Oh  !  did  we  meet  when  brighter  star 
Sent  its  fair  promise  from  afar, 
I  then  might  hope  to  call  thee  mine  — 
The  minstrel's  heart  and  harp  were  thine ; 
But  now  'tis  past — it  cannot  be; 
Farewell  !  and  think  no  more  on  me. 

Or  do  ! — but  let  it  be  the  hour 

When  mercy's  all-atoning  power 

From  His  high  throne  of  glory  hears, 

Of  souls  like  thine,  the  prayers,  the  tears ; 

Then,  whilst  you  bend  the  suppliant  knee, 

Then — then,  O  lady  !  think  on  me. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS         95 

DIRGE  OF  O*  SULLIVAN  BEAR 

From  the  Irish. 

One  of  the  Sullivans  of  Bearhaven,  who  went  by  the  name  of 
Morty  Oge,  fell  under  the  vengeance  of  the  law.  He  was  be- 
trayed by  a  confidential  servant,  named  Scully,  and  was  shot  by 
his  pursuers.  They  tied  his  body  to  a  boat,  and  dragged  it 
through  the  sea  from  Bearhaven  to  Cork,  where  his  head  was 
cut  off  and  fixed  on  the  county  jail,  where  it  remained  for 
several  years.  Such  is  the  story  current  among  the  people  of 
Bearhaven.  The  dirge  is  supposed  to  have  been  the  compo- 
sition of  O'Sullivan's  aged  nurse. — From  the  author's  note. 

THE  sun  on  Ivera 
No  longer  shines  brightly, 
The  voice  of  her  music 

No  longer  is  sprightly, 
No  more  to  her  maidens 

The  light  dance  is  dear, 
Since  the'death  of  our  darling 
O'Sullivan  Bear. 

Scully  !  thou  false  one, 

You  basely  betrayed  him, 
In  his  strong  hour  of  need, 

When  thy  right  hand  should  aid  him  \ 
He  fed  thee — he  clad  thee  — 

You  had  all  could  delight  thee  : 
You  left  him — you  sold  him  — 

May  Heaven  requite  thee  ! 

Scully  !  may  all  kinds 

Of  evil  attend  thee  ! 
On  thy  dark  road  of  life 

May  no  kind  one  befriend  thee  ! 


96        THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

May  fevers  long  burn  thee, 
And  agues  long  freeze  thee  ! 

May  the  strong  hand  of  God 
In  His  red  anger  seize  thee  ! 


Had  he  died  calmly 

I  would  not  deplore  him, 
Or  if  the  wild  strife 

Of  the  sea-war  closed  o'er  him ; 
But  with  ropes  round  his  white  limbs 

Through  ocean  to  trail  him, 
Like  a  fish  after  slaughter  — 

'Tis  therefore  I  wail  him. 


Long  may  the  curse 

Of  his  people  pursue  them  : 
Scully  that  sold  him, 

And  soldier  that  slew  him  ! 
One  glimpse  of  heaven's  light 

May  they  see  never ! 
May  the  hearthstone  of  hell 

Be  their  best  bed  forever  ! 


In  the  hole  which  the  vile  hands 

Of  soldiers  had  made  thee, 
Unhonoured,  unshrouded, 

And  headless  they  laid  thee ; 
No  sigh  to  regret  thee, 

No  eye  to  rain  o'er  thee, 
No  dirge  to  lament  thee, 

No  friend  to  deplore  thee  ! 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LTRICS         97 

Dear  head  of  my  darling, 

How  gory  and  pale 
These  aged  eyes  see  thee, 

High  spiked  on  their  jail  ! 
That  cheek  in  the  summer  sun 

Ne'er  shall  grow  warm  ; 
Nor  that  eye  e'er  catch  light, 

But  the  flash  of  the  storm. 

A  curse,  blessed  ocean, 

Is  on  thy  green  water, 
From  the  haven  of  Cork 

To  Ivera  of  slaughter  : 
Since  the  billows  were  dyed 

With  thy  red  wounds  of  fear, 
Of  Muiertach  Oge, 

Our  O'Sullivan  Bear  ! 


GOUGANE  BARRA ' 

THERE  is  a  green  island  in  lone  Gougane  Barra, 
Whence   Allu   of  songs   rushes   forth   like   an 
,  arrow ; 

In  deep-valleyed  Desmond  a  thousand  wild  fountains 
Come   down  to  that  lake,   from  their  home  in  the 

mountains. 

There    grows    the   wild    ash ;    and    a   time-stricken 
willow 

1  Gougane  Barra  is  a  small  lake  about  two  miles  in  cir- 
cumference, formed  by  the  numerous  streams  which  descend 
from  the  mountains  that  divide  the  counties  of  Cork  and 
Kerry. 


98        THE  GOLDEN  TREASURT  OF 

Looks  chidingly  down  on  the  mirth  of  the  billow, 
As,  like  some  gay  child  that  sad  monitor  scorning, 
It  lightly  laughs  back  to  the  laugh  of  the  morning. 

And   its  zone  of  dark   hills — oh  !    to   see  them  all 

bright' ning, 

When  the  tempest  flings  out  its  red  banner  of  light- 
ning, 
And  the  waters  come  down,  'mid  the  thunder's  deep 

rattle, 

Like  clans  from  their  hills  at  the  voice  of  the  battle  : 
And  brightly  the  fire-crested  billows  are  gleaming, 
And  wildly  from  Malloc  *  the  eagles  are  screaming  : 
Oh,  where  is  the  dwelling,  in  valley  or  highland, 
So  meet  for  a  bard  as  this  lone  little  island  ? 

How  oft,  when  the  summer  sun  rested  on  Clara,' 

And  lit  the  blue  headland  of  sullen  Ivera, 

Have  I  sought  thee,  sweet  spot,  from  my  home  by  the 

ocean, 

And  trod  all  thy  wilds  with  a  minstrel's  devotion, 
And  thought  on  the  bards  who,  oft  gathering  together, 
In  the  cleft  of  thy  rocks,  and  the  depth  of  thy  heather, 
Dwelt  far  from  the  Saxon's  dark  bondage  and  slaughter, 
As  they  raised  their  last  song   by  the  rush  of  thy 

water  ! 

High  sons  of  the  lyre  !  oh,  how  proud  was  the  feeling 
To  dream  while  alone  through  that  solitude  stealing; 
Though  loftier  minstrels  green  Erin  can  number, 
I  alone  waked  the  strain  of  her  harp  from  its  slumber, 

1  A  mountain  over  the  lake.  J  Cape  Clear. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS         99 

And  gleaned  the  gray  legend  that  long  had  been 
sleeping, 

Where  oblivion's  dull  mist  o'er  its  beauty  was  creep- 
ing, 

From  the  love  which  I  felt  for  my  country's  sad  story, 

When  to  love  her  was  shame,  to  revile  her  was  glory  ! 

Least  bard  of  the  free  !  were  it  mine  to  inherit 
The  fire  of  thy  harp  and  the  wing  of  thy  spirit, 
With  the  wrongs  which,  like  thee,  to  my  own  land 

have  bound  me, 

Did  your  mantle  of  song  throw  its  radiance  around  me ; 
Yet,  yet  on  those  bold  cliffs  might  Liberty  rally, 
And  abroad  send  her  cry  o'er  the  sleep  of  each  valley. 
But  rouse  thee,  vain  dreamer  !    no  fond  fancy  cherish, 
Thy  vision  of  Freedom  in  bloodshed  must  perish. 

I  soon  shall  be  gone — though  my  name  may  be  spoken 
When  Erin  awakes,  and  her  fetters  are  broken  — 
Some  minstrel  will  come  in  the  summer  eve's  gleam- 
ing* 

When  Freedom's  young  light  on  his  spirit  is  beaming, 
To  bend  o'er  my  grave  with  a  tear  of  emotion, 
Where  calm  Avonbuee  seeks  the  kisses  of  ocean, 
And  a  wild  wreath  to  plant  from  the  banks  of  that 

river 
O'er  the  heart  and  the  harp  that  are  silent  forever.' 


ioo      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 
O  SAY,  MY  BROWN  DRIMIN  l 

Translated  from  the  Irish. 

Osay,  my  brown  Drimin,  thou  silk  of  the  kine,2 
Where,  where  are  thy  strong  ones,  last  hope  of 
thy  line? 

Too  deep  and  too  long  is  the  slumber  they  take, 
At  the  loud  call  of  freedom,  why  don't  they  awake  ? 

My  strong  ones  have  fallen — from  the  bright  eye  of 

day 

All  darkly  they  sleep  in  their  dwelling  of  clay ; 
The  cold  turf  is  o'er  them ; — they  hear  not  my  cries, 
And  since  Louis  no  aid  gives  I  cannot  arise. 

O  !  where  art  thou,  Louis,  our  eyes  are  on  thee  ? 
Are  thy  lofty  ships  walking  in  strength  o'er  the  sea  ? 
In  freedom's  last  strife  if  you  linger  or  quail, 
No  morn  e'er  shall  break  on  the  night  of  the  Gael. 

But  should  the  king's  son,  now  bereft  of  his  right, 
Come,  proud  in  his  strength,  for  his  country  to  fight ; 
Like  leaves  on  the  trees  will  new  people  arise, 
And  deep  from  their  mountains  shout  back  to  my 
cries. 


1  Drimin  is  the  favourite  name  of  a  cow,  by  which  Ireland 
is  here  allegorically  denoted.  The  five  ends  of  Erin  are  the 
five  kingdoms — Munster,  Leinster,  Ulster,  Connaught,  and 
Meath — into  which  the  island  was  divided  under  the  Milesian 
dynasty. —  Callanan* 

8  Silk  of  the  cows,  an  idiomatic  expression  for  the  most  beauti- 
ful of  cattle. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        101 

When  the  prince,  now  an  exile,  shall  come  for  his  own, 
The  isles  of  his  father,  his  rights  and  his  throne, 
My  people  in  battle  the  Saxons  will  meet, 
And  kick  them  before,  like  old  shoes  from  their  feet. 

O'er   mountains   and  valleys   they'll   press  on  their 

rout, 

The  five  ends  of  Erin  shall  ring  to  their  shout ; 
My  sons  all  united  shall  bless  the  glad  day  ' 
When    the   flint-hearted   Saxons   they've   chased   far 

away. 


THE  CONVICT  OF  CLONMEL 

From  the  Irish. 

HOW  hard  is  my  fortune, 
And  vain  my  repining  ! 
The  strong  rope  of  fate 
For  this  young  neck  is  twining. 
My  strength  is  departed ; 

My  cheek  sunk  and  sallow ; 
While  I  languish  in  chains, 
In  the  jail  of  Cluanmeala. 

No  boy  in  the  village 

Was  ever  yet  milder, 
I'd  play  with  a  child, 

And  my  sport  would  be  wilder. 
I'd  dance  wfthout  tiring 

From  morning  till  even, 
And  the  goal-ball  I'd  strike 

To  the  lightning  of  Heaven. 


102      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

At  my  bed-foot  decaying, 

My  hurlbat  is  lying, 
Through  the  boys  of  the  village 

My  goal-ball  is  flying ; 
My  horse  'mong  the  neighbours 

Neglected  may  fallow,  — 
While  I  pine  in  my  chains, 

In  the  jail  of  Cluanmeala. 

Next  Sunday  the  patron 

At  home  will  be  keeping, 
And  the  young  active  hurlers 

The  field  will  be  sweeping. 
With  the  dance  of  fair  maidens 

The  evening  they'll  hallow, 
While  this  heart,  once  so  gay, 

Shall  be  cold  in  Cluanmeala. 


THE  LAMENT  OF  O'GNIVE ' 

Translated  from  the  Irish. 

HOW  dimmed  is  the  glory  that  circled  the  Gael 
And  fall'n  the  high  people  of  green  Innisfail ;  * 
The  sword  of  the  Saxon  is  red  with  their  gore ; 
And  the  mighty  of  nations  is  mighty  no  more  ! 

1  Fearflatha  O'  Gniamh  was  family  olamh  or  bard  to  the 
O'Neil  of  Clanoboy  about  the  year  1556.  The  poem  of  which 
these  lines  are  the  translation  commences  with  "  Ala  thruagh 
mar  ataid1  Goadhil." — M.  F.  McCarthy. 

4  Innisfail,  the  island  of  destiny,  one  of  the  names  of  Ire- 
land. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LTRICS        103 

Like  a  bark  on  the  ocean,  long  shattered  and  tost, 
On  the  land  of  your  fathers  at  length  you  are  lost ; 
The  hand  of  the  spoiler  is  stretched  on  your  plains, 
And  you're  doomed  from  your  cradles  to  bondage  and 
chains. 

O  where  is  the  beauty  that  beamed  on  thy  brow  ? 
Strong  hand  in  the  battle,  how  weak  art  thou  now  ! 
That  heart  is  now  broken  that  never  would  quail, 
And  thy  high  songs  are  turned  into  weeping  and  wail. 

Bright  shades  of  our  sires  !  from  your  home  in  the 

skies 

.O  blast  not  your  sons  with  the  scorn  of  your  eyes  ! 
Proud  spirit  of  Gollam,1  how  red  is  thy  cheek, 
For  thy  freemen  are  slaves,  and  thy  mighty  are  weak ! 

O'Neil  of  the  Hostages;  *  Con,3  whose  high  name 

On  a  hundred  red  battles  has  floated  to  fame, 

Let   the   long   grass   still  sigh  undisturbed  o'er  thy 

sleep ; 
Arise  not  to  shame  us,  awake  not  to  weep. 

In  thy  broad  wing  of  darkness  enfold  us,  O  night ! 
Withhold,  O  bright  sun,  the  reproach  of  thy  light ! 

1  Gollam,  a  name  of  Milesius,  the  Spanish  progenitor  of  the 
Irish  O's  and  Macs. 

2  Nial  of  the  Nine  Hostages,  the  heroic  monarch  of  Ireland  in 
the  fourth  century,  and  ancestor  of  the  O'Neil  family. 

3  Con   Cead  Caf/ia,  Con  of  the  Hundred  Fights,  monarch  of 
the  island  in  the  second  century.     Although  the  fighter  of  a 
hundred  battles,  he  was  not  the  victor  of  a  hundred  fields;  his 
valorous  rival  Owen,  King  of  Minister,  compelled  him  to  a  di- 
vision of  the  kingdom. 


104      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 

For  freedom  or  valour  no  more  canst  thou  see 
In  the  home  of  the  brave,  in  the  isle  of  the  free. 

Affliction's  dark  waters  your  spirits  have  bowed, 
And   oppression   hath  wrapped  all  your  land  in  its 

shroud, 

Since  first  from  the  Brehon's l  pure  justice  you  strayed 
And  bent  to  those  laws  the  proud  Saxon  has  made. 

We  know  not  our  country,  so  strange  is  her  face  ; 
Her  sons,  once  her  glory,  are  now  her  disgrace ; 
Gone,  gone  is  the  beauty  of  fair  Innisfail, 
For  the  stranger  now  rules  in  the  land  of  the  Gael. 

Where,  where  are  the  woods  that  oft  rung  to  your 

cheer, 
Where  you  waked  the  wild  chase  of  the  wolf  and  the 

deer? 
Can  those  dark  heights,  with  ramparts  all  frowning 

and  riven, 
Be  the   hills  where   your  forests  waved   brightly  in 

heaven  ? 

O  bondsmen  of  Egypt,  no  Moses  appears 

To  light  your  dark  steps  thro'  this  desert  of  tears  ! 

Degraded  and  lost  ones,  no  Hector  is  nigh 

To  lead  you  to  freedom,  or  teach  you  to  die  ! 

1  Brehons,  the  hereditary  judges  of  the  Irish  septs. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LTRICS        105 


JOSEPH  CAMPBELL 

(Living) 

NEWTOWNBREDA 

>r"  •  "'IS  pretty  tae  be  in  Ballylesson, 

'Tis  pretty  tae  be  in  green  Malone; 
'Tis  prettier  tae  be  in  Newtownbreda, 

Becking  under  the  eaves  in  June. 
The  cummers  are  out  wi'  their  knitting  and  spinning, 

The  thrush  sings  frae  his  crib  on  the  wa', 
And  o'er  the  white  road  the  clachan  caddies 
Play  at  their  marlies  and  goaling-ba'. 

O  !  fair  are  the  fields  o'  Ballylesson, 

And  fair  are  the  faes  o'  green  Malone ; 
But  fairer  the  flowers  o'  Newtownbreda, 

Wet  wi'  dew  in  the  eves  o'  June. 
'Tis  pleasant  tae  saunter  the  gray  clachan  thoro' 

When  day  sinks  mellow  o'er  Divis  hill, 
And  feel  their  fragrance  sae  softly  breathing 

Frae  croft  and  causey  and  window-sill. 

O  !  brave  are  the  haughs  o'  Ballylesson, 

And  brave  are  the  halds  o'  green  Malone ; 
But  braver  the  hames  o'  Newtownbreda, 

Twined  about  wi'  the  pinks  o'  June. 
And  just  as  the  face  is  sae  kindly  withouten, 

The  heart  within  is  as  guid  as  gold  — 
Wi'  new  Fair  ballants  and  merry  music, 

And  cracks  cam'  down  frae  the  days  of  old. 


106      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

'Tis  pretty  tae  be  in  Ballylesson, 

And  pretty  tae  be  in  green  Malone; 
'Tis  prettier  tae  be  in  Newtownbreda, 

Becking  under  the  eaves  in  June. 
The  cummers  are  out  vvi'  their  knitting  and  spinning, 

The  thrush  sings  frae  his  crib  on  the  wa', 
And  o'er  the  white  road  the  clachan  caddies 

Play  at  their  niarlies  and  goaling-ba'. 


THE  FRIAR'S  BUSH 

The  Friar's  Bush  gives  name  to  the  old  Catholic  burying- 
ground  situate  on  the  left-hand  side  of  the  road  leading  out 
from  Beul-feirste  to  Srath-milis,  on  the  rise  of  the  hill  just  before 
you  come  to  Mount  Pleasant.  I  never  knew  how  the  place  got 
its  name  until  told  by  my  mother,  who  is  a  repository  of  all  the 
quaint  traditional  stories  of  Lagan  Vale.  I  tell  her  story  in 
versified  form  below. 

IN  penal  times,  as  peasants  tell, 
A  friar  came  with  book  and  bell 
To  chaunt  his  Mass  each  Sabbath  morn 
Beneath  Srath-milis'  trysting-thorn. 

He  came  in  sun,  he  came  in  flood 

From  Ard-mic  Nasca's  holy  wood, 

Where  Niall  built  his  monastery 

To  house'the  scripts  of  Clann-Aedha-buidhe. 

But  that  was  in  the  golden  age 
When  Ulaid  fostered  saint  and  sage, 
Ere  gorbies  grasped  their  mensal-lands 
Or  filed  their  books  with  bloody  hands. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        107 

This  priest  was  of  the  family 

That  own  the  name  Mic  Giollamhuire ; 

In  rebel  days  at  Baile-Daithi 

His  faith  was  banned  by  Saxon  law. 

And  so,  all  sick  at  sight  of  blood, 
He  hied  him  to  the  holy  wood 
Where  Niall's  presbyters  of  old 
Preached  God's-spell  to  the  Gaelic  fold 

And  there  in  spite  of  hue  and  cry 
The  tonsured  one  found  sanctuary ; 
And,  moving  featly  like  a  bird, 
Among  his  folk  he  ministered. 

And,  as  our  northern  legends  tell, 
He  came  with  candle,  book  and  bell 
To  chaunt  his  Mass  each  Sabbath  morn 
Beneath  Srath-milis'  trysting-thorn. 

This  thorn  grew  green  upon  a  hill 
Above  Srath-milis'  straits,  and  still 
Grows  there  for  every  soul  to  see 
That  honours  hoar  antiquity. 

The  folk  who  deemed  their  fathers'  faith 
More  dear  than  life,  and  laughed  at  death, 
Came  thither  every  Sabbath  morn 
To  worship  God  beneath  the  thorn. 

And,  sailing  up  by  Loch-an-laegh 
Betwixt  the  shores  of  Clann-Aeclha-buidhe, 
The  holy  priest  would  meet  them  there 
To  lead  their  hearts  in  fragrant  prayer. 


io8      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURT  OF 

Week  in,  week  out,  he  crossed  the  ford 
To  Fearsad  town,  and  dared  the  sword 
Of  those  who  mocked  his  churchly  cloth, 
And  sought  his  bones  to  make  them  broth. 

But,  guarded  by  the  grace  of  God, 
Unharmed  he  went  his  weary  road, 
Till  of  a  darkling  Lammas  day 
A  planter  took  his  life  away. 

He  slew  him  by  the  trysting-tree 
At  chosen  opportunity  — 
His  hand  upheld  the  Sacred  Blood 
That  flowed  unto  the  common  good  ! 

Nor  arm  nor  voice  of  any  there 
Was  raised  to  quell  the  murtherer ; 
For  shame  each  peasant's  heart  was  numb, 
For  fear  each  woman's  soul  was  dumb. 

With  double  blood  upon  his  head 
The  planter  to  his  castle  sped ; 
And  o'er  their  shepherd's  body  pale 
The  people  raised  the  funeral-wail. 

They  laid  him  after  sunset-blush 
Beneath  the  ancient  trysting-bush, 
And  on  his  head  they  set  the  sod 
O'er  which  the  sacring-cup  had  flowed. 

They  wandered  long  without  a  guide, 
And  of  their  number  many  died, 
And  ere  they  passed  they  begged  to  be 
Laid  resting  by  the  "Friar's  Tree." 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        109 

'Twas  thus,  if  legend  tell  it  true, 
A  lowly  graveyard  round  it  grew ; 
A  holy  spot  it  is,  in  faith, 
Where  one  might  wish  to  lie  in  death. 

And  still  on  moldered  stone  and  grass 
The  thorn-tree  sees  the  shadows  pass, 
Nor  shows  a  sign  of  slow  decay, 
For  'twill  be  quick  till  Judgment-day  ! 


THE  GARDEN  OF  THE  BEES 

THERE  is  a  clearing  in  the  maze  of  flowers 
That  closes  in  my  father's  House  of  Happi- 
ness ; 
And  Summer  dews  it  with  her  softest  showers, 

The  while  she  suns  it  with  an  eye  of  tenderness. 
And  on  its  plat  of  shaven  fairy-grass 

My  bees  are  housed  in  hives  of  beechen  wood, 

Filling  the  languorous  air  with  lazy  drone 
Till  moth-time  comes  with  melancholy  mood, 

Deepening  the  shadow  on  the  dial-stone, 
And  drifts  of  purple  o'er  the  mountain  pass. 

And  often  there  of  quiet  Summer  eves 

We  gather,  Seaghan  and  Seumas,  Feidhlim  Og  and 

.       I  — 
My  Gaelic  school — to  sit  within  the  leaves, 

And  listen  to  the  red-bees'  twilight  lullaby. 
And  Seaghan  will  take  a  poem  from  his  breast, 

Chanting  it  to  the  purple  sunken  sun, 


no      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

Until  the  merging  glow  of  day  and  night 
And  murmurous  drone  and  singer's  voice  are  one, 

And  Dana's  secret  eyes  from  heaven's  height 
Look  down  upon  our  little  world  at  rest. 

THE  LAMENT  OF  PATRAIC  MOR  MAC- 
CRUIMIN  OVER  HIS  SONS 

The  MacCruimins  were  hereditary  pipers  to  the  MacLeods 
of  Skye  (Inis  Scathach).  The  crest  of  the  clan  is  a  hand  hold- 
ing a  pipe  chanter,  with  the  motto  COGADH  NO  SITH — "  Peace 
or  War."  Many  stories  are  told  of  the  clan.  Patraic  Mor,  who 
lived  in  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century,  was  frequently 
accompanied  to  kirk  and  market  by  seven  grown-up  sons,  all 
of  whom  died  within  one  twelve-months.  It  was  on  their  ac- 
count that  the  sorrowing  parent  composed  the  affecting  piol»ai- 
reacht  called  CUMHADH  NO  CLOINNE,  or  "  Lament  for  the 
Children." 


I 


AM  Patraic  Mor  MacCruimin, 
Son  of  Domhnall  of  the  Shroud, 

Piper,  like  my  kind  before  me, 
To  the  household  of  MacLeod. 


Death  is  in  the  seed  of  Cruimin ; 

All  my  music  is  a  wail ; 
Early  graves  await  the  poets 

And  the  pipers  of  the  Gael. 

Samhain  gleans  the  golden  harvests 
Duly  in  their  tide  and  time, 

But  the  body's  fruit  is  blasted 
Barely  past  the  Bealtein  prime. 

Cethlenn  claims  the  fairest  fighters 
Fitly  for  her  own,  her  own, 

But  my  seven  sons  are  stricken 
Where  no  battle-pipe  is  blown. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        in 

Flowers  of  the  forest  fallen 

On  the  sliding  summer  stream  — 

Light  and  life  and  love  are  with  me, 
Then  are  vanished  into  dream. 

Berried  branches  of  the  rowan 

Rifled  in  the  wizard  wind  — 
Clan  and  generation  leave  me, 

Lonely  on  the  heath  behind. 

Who  will  soothe  a  father's  sorrow 
When  his  seven  sons  are  gone? 

Who  will  watch  him  in  his  sleeping? 
Who  will  wake  him  at  the  dawn  ? 

Like  the  salmon  of  the  river, 

Rusting  in  the  salty  sea, 
I  will  lie  adream,  and  listen 

For  the  call  to  come  to  me. 

Like  the  eagle  of  the  eyrie, 

Kidnapped  of  its  callow  brood, 

I  will  seek  the  windy  valley, 
I  will  search  the  misty  wood. 

Seven  sons  are  taken  from  me 

In  the  compass  of  a  year ; 
Every  bone  is  bose  within  me, 

All  my  blood  is  white  with  fear. 

Seven  youths  of  brawn  and  beauty 
Moulder  in  their  mountain  bed, 

Up  in  storied  Inis-Scathach 

Where  their  fathers  reaped  their  bread. 


1 1 2      THE  G  OLDEN  TR  EAS  UR  Y  OF 

Nevermore  upon  the  mountain, 

Nevermore  in  fair  or  field 
Shall  ye  see  the  seven  champions 

Of  the  silver-mantled  shield. 

I  will  play  the  "  Cumhadh  na  Cloinne," 
Wildest  of  the  rowth  of  tunes 

Gathered  by  the  love  of  mortal 
From  the  olden  druid-runes. 

Wail  ye  !     Night  is  on  the  water ; 

Wind  and  wave  are  roaring  loud  — 
Caoine  for  the  fallen  children 

Of  the  piper  of  MacLeod. 


THE  NINE  GLENS  OF  AON-DRUIM  » 

THERE  is  fire  in  the  heart  of  the  Nine  Glens 
within, 
That  Oisin,    the   ardent-souled,    would   live 

again  to  light : 
The  seed  of  fire  that  molders  there  in  darkness  chill 

and  dim 
Must  blow  to  bloom  flame-bright. 

1  Gleann-taise,  the  glen  of  the  fetch  or  ghost. 
Gleann-seisg,  the  glen  of  the  green  sedge. 
Gleann-Duine,  the  glen  of  the  Abhainn  Duine  River. 
Gleann  corp,  the  glen  of  the  dead  bodies. 
Gleannan  (Gleann-aithin),  the  glen  of  the  little  ford. 
Gleann-baile-Eamain,  the  glen  of  the  town  of  Eaman. 
Gleann-araimh,  the  glen  of  the  ploughman. 
Gleann-gorm,  the  blue  glen. 
Gleann-cloiche,  the  glen  of  the  stone. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        113 

Gleann-taise  sings  the  fairy-songs  she  knew  of  yore; 
Thro'  Gieann-seisg,  exulting,   the  brown-streamed 

rivers  leap ; 
And,  stirred   by  the  finer  breath  that  fills  her  bosom 

hoar, 
Glean n-Duine  looks  up  from  her  sleep. 

Strange  sounds  of  shrilly  music  are  rife  in  the  wind 
That  breathes  down  Gleann-araimh  from  the  long- 
forgotten  years; 
'Tis  the  pipes  of  Somhairle  Buidhe  leading  out  his 

Gaelic  kind 
That  ring  in  her  wondering  ears. 

Gleann-corp  marks  the  cry,  and  Gleannan  green 
Takes  up  the  quickening  ether  within  her  zone  of 
hills ; 

And  Gleann-baile-Eamain  looks  like  a  battler's  queen 
When  her  pulse  at  his  piobreacht  thrills. 

Gleann-gorm  is  out  to  meet  the  risen  dawn 

In  summer  busk  of  purple  broom  and  lichen  gray; 

And  swift  as  the  phantom  ships  of  Manannan 
The  shadows  of  Gleann-cloiche  fleet  away. 

There  is  fire  in  the  heart  of  the  Nine  Glens  within, 
That  Oisin,  the  magic-tongued,  is  come  again  to 

light : 
The  seed  of  fire  that  moulders  there  in  darkness  chill 

and  dim 
Will  blow  to  bloom  flame- bright. 


ii4      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 


JOHN  T.  CAMPION 

(1814-        ) 

EMMET'S  DEATH 

"  TJE  dies  to-day,"  said  the  heartless  judge, 
Whilst  he  sate  him  down  to  the  feast, 
And  a  smile  was  upon  his  ashy  lip 

As  he  uttered  a  ribald  jest ; 
For  a  demon  dwelt  where  his  heart  should  be, 

That  lived  upon  blood  and  sin, 
And  oft  as  that  vile  judge  gave  him  food 
The  demon  throbbed  within. 


"  He  dies  to-day,"  said  the  jailer  grim, 

Whilst  a  tear  was  in  his  eye; 
"But  why  should  I  feel  so  grieved  for  him ? 

Sure,  I've  seen  many  die  ! 
Last  night  I  went  to  his  stony  cell, 

With  the  scanty  prison  fare  — 
He  was  sitting  at  a  table  rude, 

Plaiting  a  lock  of  hair  ! 
And  he  look'd  so  mild,  with  his  pale,  pale  face, 

And  he  spoke  in  so  kind  a  way, 
That  my  old  breast  heaved  with  a  smothering  feel, 

And  I  knew  not  what  to  say !  " 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        115 

"  He  dies  to-day,"  thought  a  fair,  sweet  girl  — 

She  lacked  the  life  to  speak, 
For  sorrow  had  almost  frozen  her  blood, 

And  white  were  her  lip  and  cheek  — 
Despair  had  drank  up  her  last  wild  tear, 

And  her  brow  was  damp  and  chill, 
And  they  often  felt  at  her  heart  with  fear, 

For  its  ebb  was  all  but  still. 


n6      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 


GEORGE  CANNING 
(1770-1827) 

EPITAPH 

For  the  tombstone  erected  over  the  Marquis  of  Anglesea's 
leg,  lost  at  Waterloo. 


H 


ERE  rests,  and  let  no  saucy  knave 

Presume  to  sneer  and  laugh, 
To  learn  that  moldering  in  the  grave 
Is  laid  a  British  Calf. 


For  he  who  writes  these  lines  is  sure, 
That  those  who  read  the  whole 

Will  find  such  laugh  was  premature, 
For  here,  too,  lies  a  sole. 

And  here  five  little  ones  repose, 

Twin  born  with  other  five, 
Unheeded  by  their  brother  toes, 

Who  all  are  now  alive. 

A  leg  and  foot  to  speak  more  plain, 
Rests  here  of  one  commanding ; 

Who  though  his  wits  he  might  retain, 
Lost  half  his  understanding. 

And  when  the  guns,  with  thunder  fraught, 

Poured  bullets  thick  as  hail, 
Could  only  in  this  way  be  taught 

To  give  the  foe  leg-bail. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        117 

And  now  in  England,  just  as  gay 

As  in  the  battle  brave, 
Goes  to  a  rout,  review  or  play, 

With  one  foot  in  the  grave. 

Fortune  in  vain  here  showed  her  spite, 

For  he  will  still  be  found, 
Should  England's  sons  engage  in  fight, 

Resolved  to  stand  his  ground. 

But  Fortune's  pardon  I  must  beg; 

She  meant  not  to  disarm, 
For  when  she  lopped  the  hero's  leg, 

She  did  not  seek  his  harm, 

And  but  indulg'd  a  harmless  whim ; 

Since  he  could  walk  with  one 
She  saw  two  legs  were  lost  on  him, 

Who  never  meant  to  run. 


SONG 

From  "  The  Rover  ;  or  the  Double  Arrangement." 


w 


HENE'ER  with  haggard  eyes  I  view 
This  dungeon  that  I'm  rotting  in, 
I  think  of  those  companions  true 
Who  studied  with  me  at  the  U — 
— niversity  of  Gottingen, 
— niversity  of  Gottingen. 


Sweet  kerchief,  checked  with  heavenly  blue, 
Which  once  my  love  sat  knotting  in  !  — 


n8      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURr  OF 

Alas  !  Matilda  then  was  true  ! 
At  least  I  thought  so  at  the  U  — 
— Diversity  of  Gottingen, 
— niversity  of  Gottingen. 

Barbs  !  barbs  !  alas  !  how  swift  you  flew, 

Her  neat  post-wagon  trotting  in  ! 
Ye  bore  Matilda  from  my  view ; 
Forlorn  I  languished  at  the  U  — 
— niversity  of  Gottingen, 
— niversity  of  Gottingen. 

This  faded  form  !  this  pallid  hue  ! 

This  blood  rny  veins  is  clotting  in  ! 
My  years  are  many — they  were  few 
When  first  I  entered  at  the  U  — 
— niversity  of  Gottingen, 
— niversity  of  Gottingen. 

There  first  for  thee  my  passion  grew, 

Sweet,  sweet  Matilda  Pottingen  ! 
Thou  wast  the  daughter  of  my  tu- 
tor, law  professor  at  the  U  — 
— niversity  of  Gottingen, 
— niversity  of  Gottingen. 

1  Sun,  moon,  and  thou,  vain  world,  adieu ! 
That  kings  and  priests  are  plotting  in : 
Here  doomed  to  starve  on  water  gru- 
el, never  shall  1  see  the  U — 
— niversity  of  Gottingen, 
— niversity  of  Gottingen. 

1  This  verse  is  said  to  have  been  added  by  the  younger  Pitt. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        119 

THE  FRIEND  OF  HUMANITY  AND  THE 
KNIFE-GRINDER 


FRIEND    OF   HUMANITY 


N 


EEDY  Knife-grinder  !  whither  are  you  going  ? 
Rough  is  the  road;  your  wheel  is  out  of  order — 
Bleak  blows  the  blast ;  your  hat  has  got  a  hole 

in't. 
So  have  your  breeches  1 


Weary  Knife-grinder  !  little  think  the  proud  ones 

Who  in  their  coaches  roll  along  the  turnpike 

Road,  what  hard  work  'tis  crying  all  day,  "Knives 

and 
Scissors  to  grind  O  !  " 

Tell  me,  Knife-grinder,  how  you  came  to  grind  knives  ? 
Did  some  rich  man  tyrannically  use  you  ? 
Was  it  some  squire  ?  or  parson  of  the  parish  ? 
Or  the  attorney  ? 

Was  it  the  squire,  for  killing  of  his  game  ?  or 
Covetous  parson,  for  his  tithes  distraining? 
Or  roguish  lawyer,  made  you  lose  your  little 
All  in  a  lawsuit  ? 

Have  you  not  read  the  "Rights  of  Man,"  by  Tom 

Paine  ? 

Drops  of  compassion  tremble  on  my  eyelids, 
Ready  to  fall,  as  soon  as  you  have  told  your 
Pitiful  story. 


120      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURr  OF 

KNIFE-GRINDER 

Story  ?     God  bless  you  !  I  have  none  to  tell,  sir : 
Only  last  night  a-drinking  at  the  Chequers, 
This  poor  old  hat  and  breeches,  as  you  see,  were 
Torn  in  a  scuffle. 

Constables  came  up  for  to  take  me  into 
Custody ;  they  took  me  before  the  justice ; 
Justice  Oldmixon  put  me  in  the  parish 
Stocks  for  a  vagrant. 

I  should  be  glad  to  drink  your  honour's  health  in 
A  pot  of  beer,  if  you  will  give  me  sixpence ; 
But  for  my  part,  I  never  love  to  meddle 
With  politics,  sir. 

FRIEND   OF  HUMANITY 

I  give  thee  sixpence  !  I  will  see  thee  damned  first  — 
Wretch  !    whom   no   sense  of  wrongs  can  rouse  to 

vengeance ! 

Sordid,  unfeeling,  reprobate,  degraded, 
Spiritless  outcast ! 

[Kicks  the  Knife-grinder,  overturns  his  wheel,  and 
exit  in  a  transport  of  republican  enthusiasm  and  uni- 
versal philanthropy.] 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        121 


WILLIAM  CANTON 
(1845-        ) 

LAUS  INFANTIUM 

IN  praise  of  little  children  I  will  say 
God  first  made  man,  then  found  a  better  way 
For  woman,  but  his  third  way  was  the  best. 
Of  all  created  things,  the  loveliest 
And  most  divine  are  children.     Nothing  here 
Can  be  to  us  more  gracious  or  more  dear. 
And  though,  when  God  saw  all  his  works  were  good, 
There  was  no  rosy  flower  of  babyhood, 
'Twas  said  of  children  in  a  later  day 
That  none  could  enter  Heaven  save  such  as  they. 

The  earth,  which  feels  the  flowering  of  a  thorn, 
Was  glad,  O  little  child,  when  you  were  born ; 
The  earth,  which  thrills  when  skylarks  scale  the  blue, 
Soared  up  itself  to  God's  own  Heaven  in, you ; 
And  Heaven,  which  loves  to  lean  down  and  to  glass 
Its  beauty  in  each  dewdrop  on  the  grass, — 
Heaven  laughed  to  find  your  face  so  pure  and  fair, 
And  left,  O  little  child,  its  reflex  there. 


122      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURT  OF 


WILLIAM  CARLETON 
(1798-1869) 

A  SIGH  FOR  KNOCKMANY 

TAKE,  proud  ambition,  take  thy  fill 
Of  pleasures  won  through  toil  or  crime ; 
Go,  learning,  climb  thy  rugged  hill, 
And  give  thy  name  to  future  time. 
Philosophy,  be  keen  to  see 

Whate'er  is  just,  or  false,  or  vain  ; 
Take  each  thy  meed,  but  oh,  give  me 
To  range  my  mountain  glens  again. 

Pure  was  the  breeze  that  fanned  my  cheek, 

As  o'er  Knockmany's  brow  I  went; 
When  every  lovely  dell  could  speak 

In  airy  music,  vision -sent. 
False  world,  I  hate  thy  cares  and  thee ; 

I  hate  the  treacherous  haunts  of  men ; 
Give  back  my  early  heart  to  me, 

Give  back  to  me  my  mountain  glen. 

How  light  my  youthful  visions  shone 

When  spanned  by  Fancy's  radiant  form  !• 
But  now  her  glittering  bow  is  gone, 

And  leaves  me  but  the  cloud  and  storm ; 
With  wasted  form  and  cheek  all  pale, 

With  heart  long  seared  by  grief  and  pain, 
Dunroe,  I'll  seek  thy  native  gale, 

I'll  tread  my  mountain  glens  again. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LTRICS       123 

Thy  breeze  once  more  may  fan  my  blood, 

The  valleys  all  are  lovely  still ; 
And  I  may  stand  as  once  I  stood, 

In  lonely  musings  on  thy  hill. 
But  ah  !  the  spell  is  gone.     No  art 

In  crowded  town,  or  native  plain, 
Can  teach  a  crushed  and  breaking  heart 

To  pipe  the  songs  of  youth  again. 


124      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 


JOHN  KEEGAN  CASEY 
(1846-1870) 

DONAL  KENNY 

OME,  piper,  play  the  <  Shaskan  Reel,' 
Or  else  the  '  Lasses  on  the  heather,' 
And,  Mary,  lay  aside  your  wheel 

Until  we  dance  once  more  together. 
At  fair  and  pattern l  oft  before 

Of  reels  and  jigs  we've  tripped  full  many ; 
But  ne'er  again  this  loved  old  floor 
Will  feel  the  foot  of  Donal  Kenny." 

Softly  she  rose  and  took  his  hand, 

And  softly  glided  through  the  measure, 
While,  clustering  round,  the  village  band 

Looked  half  in  sorrow,  half  in  pleasure. 
Warm  blessings  flowed  from  every  lip 

As  ceased  the  dancers'  airy  motion : 
O  Blessed  Virgin  !  guide  the  ship 

Which  bears  bold  Donal  o'er  the  ocean  ! 

"  Now  God  be  with  you  all !  "  he  sighed, 
Adown  his  face  the  bright  tears  flowing  — 

"God  guard  you  well,  avic,"  they  cried, 
"Upon  the  strange  path  you  are  going." 

1  Pattern,  patron  saint,  a  saint's  day. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        125 

So  full  his  breast,  he  scarce  could  speak, 

With  burning  grasp  the  stretched  hands  taking, 

He  pressed  a  kiss  on  every  cheek, 

And  sobbed  as  if  his  heart  was  breaking. 

"  Boys,  don't  forget  me  when  I'm  gone, 

For  sake  of  all  the  days  passed  over  — 
The  days  you  spent  on  heath  and  bawn 

With  Donal  Ruadh,  the  rattlin'  rover. 
Mary,  agra,  your  soft  brown  eye 

Has  willed  my  fate  "  (he  whispered  lowly) ; 
"  Another  holds  thy  heart :  good-bye  ! 

Heaven  grant  you  both  its  blessings  holy  !  " 

A  kiss  upon  her  brow  of  snow, 

A  rush  across  the  moonlit  meadow, 
Whose  broom-clad  hazels,  trembling  slow, 

The  mossy  boreen  wrapped  in  shadow ; 
Away  o'er  Tully's  bounding  rill, 

And  far  beyond  the  Inny  river ; 
One  cheer  on  Carrick's  rocky  hill, 

And  Donal  Kenny's  gone  forever. 


The  breezes  whistled  through  the  sails, 

O'er  Galway  Bay  the  ship  was  heaving, 
And  smothered  groans  and  bursting  wails 

Told  all  the  grief  and  pain  of  leaving. 
One  form  among  that  exiled  band 

Of  parting  sorrow  gave  no  token, 
Still  was  his  breath,  and  cold  his  hand : 

For  Donal  Kenny's  heart  was  broken. 


126      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 
GRACIE  OG  MACHREE  l 

SONG   OF   THE    "WILD   GEESE" 

I  PLACED  the  silver  in  her  palm, 
By  Inny's  smiling  tide, 
And  vowed,  ere  summer  time  came  on, 

To  claim  her  as  a  bride. 
But  when  the  summer  time  came  on, 

I  dwelt  beyond  the  sea ; 

Yet  still  my  heart  is  ever  true 

To  Grade  Og  Machree. 


O  bonnie  are  the  woods  of  Targ, 

And  green  thy  hills,  Rath  more, 
And  soft  the  sunlight  ever  falls 

On  Darre's  sloping  shore ; 
And  there  the  eyes  I  love — in  tears 

Shine  ever  mournfully, 
While  I  am  far,  and  far  away 

From  Grade  Og  Machree. 


When  battle-steeds  were  neighing  loud, 

With  bright  blades  in  the  air, 
Next  to  my  inmost  heart  I  wore 

A  bright  tress  of  her  hair. 
When  stirrup-cups  were  lifted  up 

To  lips,  with  soldier  glee, 
One  toast  I  always  fondly  pledged, 

'Twas  Grade  Og  Machree. 

1  Grade  6g  mo-chroldhe,  young  Grade  of  my  heart. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        127 

O  I  may  never,  never  clasp 

Again,  her  lily  hand, 
And  I  may  find  a  soldier's  grave 

Upon  a  foreign  strand  ; 
But  when  the  heart  pulse  beats  the  last, 

And  death  takes  hold  of  me, 
One  word  shall  part  my  dying  lips, 

Thy  name,  As  tor  Machree? 


MAIRE  MY  GIRL 

Air — "  Mairgread  ni  Chealleadh" 

OVER  the  dim  blue  hills 
Strays  a  wild  river, 
Over  the  dim  blue  hills 
Rests  my  heart  ever. 
Dearer  and  brighter  than 

Jewels  and  pearl, 
Dwells  she  in  beauty  there, 
Maire a  my  girl. 

Down  upon  Claris  heath 

Shines  the  soft  berry, 
On  the  brown  harvest  tree 

Droops  the  red  cherry. 
Sweeter  thy  honey  lips, 

Softer  the  curl 
Straying  adown  thy  cheeks, 

Maire  my  girl. 

1  A-stdir  mo-chroidhe,  O  treasure  of  my  heart. 
8  Pronounced,  Maurya. 


128      THE  GOLDEN  TRBASUkT  OF 

'Twas  on  an  April  eve 

That  I  first  met  her  j 
Many  an  eve  shall  pass 

Ere  I  forget  her. 
Since  my  young  heart  has  been 

Wrapped  in  a  whirl, 
Thinking  and  dreaming  of 

Maire  my  girl. 

She  is  too  kind  and  fond 

Ever  to  grieve  me, 
She  has  too  pure  a  heart 

E'er  to  deceive  me. 
Were  I  Tyrconnell's  chief 

Or  Desmond's  earl, 
Life  would  be  dark,  wanting 

Maire  my  girl. 

Over  the  dim  blue  hills 

Strays  a  wild  river, 
Over  the  dim  blue  hills 

Rests  my  heart  ever ; 
Dearer  and  brighter  than 

Jewels  or  pearl, 
Dwells  she  in  beauty  there, 

Maire  my  girl. 

THE  RISING  OF  THE  MOON 
(A.  D.  1798) 

,  then,  tell  me,  Shawn  O'Ferrall, 

Tell  me  why  you  hurry  so? " 
' '  Hush !  ma  bouchal,  hush,  and  listen 

And  his  cheeks  were  all  a-glow : 
"  I  bear  ordhers  from  the  Captain  — 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        129 

Get  you  ready  quick  and  soon ; 
For  the  pikes  must  be  together 
At  the  risin'  of  the  moon." 


"Oh,  then,  tell  me,  Shawn  O'Ferrall, 

Where  the  gath'rin'  is  to  be?  " 
"  In  the  ould  spot  by  the  river, 

Right  well  known  to  you  and  me ; 
One  word  more — for  signal  token 

Whistle  up  the  marchin'  tune, 
With  your  pike  upon  your  shoulder, 

By  the  risin'  of  the  moon." 

Out  from  many  a  mud-wall  cabin 

Eyes  were  watching  thro'  that  night; 
Many  a  manly  chest  was  throbbing 

For  the  blessed  warning  light. 
Murmurs  passed  along  the  valleys, 

Like  the  banshee 's  lonely  croon, 
And  a  thousand  blades  were  flashing 

At  the  risin'  of  the  moon. 

There,  beside  the  singing  river, 

That  dark  mass  of  men  were  seen  — 
Far  above  the  shining  weapons 

Hung  their  own  beloved  "  Green  "  ; 
"  Death  to  ev'ry  foe  and  traitor ! 

Forward  !  strike  the  marchin'  tune, 
And  hurrah,  my  boys,  for  freedom  ! 

'Tis  the  risin'  of  the  moon." 

Well  they  fought  for  poor  Old  Ireland, 
And  full  bitter  was  their  fate ; 


130      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

(Oh  !  what  glorious  pride  and  sorrow 
Fill  the  name  of  'Ninety-Eight !) 

Yet,  thank  God,  e'en  still  are  beating 
Hearts  in  manhood's  burning  noon, 

Who  would  follow  in  their  footsteps 
At  the  risin'  of  the  moon  ! 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        131 


ANDREW  CHERRY 

(1762-1812) 

THE  BAY  OF  BISCAY 

LOUD  roared  the  dreadful  thunder, 
The  rain  a  deluge  showers, 
The  clouds  were  rent  asunder 
By  lightning's  vivid  powers : 
The  night  both  drear  and  dark, 
Our  poor  devoted  bark, 
Till  next  day  there  she  lay 
In  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  O  ! 

Now  dashed  upon  the  billow, 
Our  opening  timbers  creak ; 

Each  fears  a  wat'ry  pillow, 
None  stops  the  dreadful  leak ; 

To  cling  to  slipp'ry  shrouds 

Each  breathless  seaman  crowds, 

As  she  lay  till  next  day 
In  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  O  ! 

At  length  the  wished-for  morrow 

Broke  thro'  the  hazy  sky ; 
Absorbed  in  silent  sorrow, 

Each  heaved  a  bitter  sigh ; 
The  dismal  wreck  to  view 
Struck  horror  to  the  crew, 
As  she  lay  on  that  day 

In  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  O ! 


132      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

Her  yielding  timbers  sever, 
Her  pilchy  seams  are  rent, 

When  Heaven,  all-bounteous  ever, 
Its  boundless  mercy  sent ; 

A  sail  in  sight  appears, 

We  hail  her  with  three  cheers : 

Now  we  sail  with  the  gale 
From  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  O  ! 


THE  GREEN  LITTLE  SHAMROCK  OF  IRELAND 

THERE'S  a  dear  little  plant  that  grows  in  our  isle, 
'Twas  Saint  Patrick  himself,  sure,  that  set  it ; 
And  the  sun  on  his  labour  with  pleasure  did 

smile, 

And  with  dew  from  his  eye  often  wet  it. 
It  thrives  through  the  bog,  through  the  brake,  through 

the  mireland ; 

And  he  called  it  the  dear  little  shamrock  of  Ireland, 
The  sweet  little  shamrock,  the  dear  little  sham- 

*  rock, 
The  sweet  little,  green  little,  shamrock  of  Ireland. 

This  dear  little  plant  still  grows  in  our  land, 

Fresh  and  fair  as  the  daughters  of  Erin, 
Whose  smiles  can  bewitch,  whose  eyes  can  command, 

In  each  climate  that  they  may  appear  in ; 
And  shine  through  the  bog,  through  the  brake,  through 

the  mireland  ; 

Just  like  their  own  dear  little  shamrock  of  Ireland, 
The  sweet  little  shamrock,  the  dear  little  sham- 
rock, 
The  sweet  little,  green  little,  shamrock  of  Ireland. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        133 

This  dear  little  plant  that  springs  from  our  soil, 

When  its  three  little  leaves  are  extended, 
Denotes  from  one  stalk  we  together  should  toil, 

And  ourselves  by  ourselves  be  befriended; 
And  still  through  the  bog,  through  the  brake,  through 

the  mireland, 
From  one  root  should  branch,  like  the  shamrock  of 

Ireland, 

The  sweet  little  shamrock,  the  dear  little  sham- 
rock, 
The  sweet  little,  green  little,  shamrock  of  Ireland. 


TOM  MOODY 

YOU  all  knew  Tom  Moody,  the  whipper-in,  well ; 
The  bell  just  done  tolling  was  honest  Tom's 

knell ; 

A  more  able  sportsman  ne'er  followed  a  hound, 
Through  a  country  well  known  to  him  fifty  miles  round. 
No  hound  ever  opened  with  Tom  near  the  wood 
But  he'd  challenge  the  tone,  and  could  tell  if  'twere 

good ; 

And  all  with  attention  would  eagerly  mark, 
When  he  cheered  up  the  pack.     "  Hark !  to  Rook- 
wood,  hark  !  hark  ! 

High  ! — wind  him  !  and  cross  him ; 
Now,  Rattler,  boy  ! — Hark  !  " 

Six  crafty  earth- stoppers,  in  hunter's  green  drest, 
Supported  poor  Tom  to  an  "  earth  "  made  for  rest ; 
His  horse,  which  he  styled  his  Old  Soul,  next  appeared, 
On  whose  forehead  the  brush  of  the  last   fox   was 
reared ; 


134      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

Whip,  cap,  boots,  and  spurs  in  a  trophy  were  bound, 
And  here  and  there  followed  an  old  straggling  hound. 
Ah  !  no  more  at  his  voice  yonder  vales  will  they  trace, 
Nor  the  welkin  resound  to  the  burst  in  the  chase  ! 

With  "  High  over  ! — now  press  him  ! 

Tally-ho  !— Tally-ho  !" 

Thus  Tom  spoke  his  friends  ere  he  gave  up  his  breath, 
"  Since  I  see  you're  resolved  to  be  in  at  the  death, 
One  favor  bestow — 'tis  the  last  I  shall  crave, — 
Give  a  rattling  view-hollow  thrice  over  my  grave ; 
And  unless  at  that  warning  I  lift  up  my  head, 
My  boys,  you  may  fairly  conclude  I  am  dead  !  " 
Honest  Tom  was  obeyed,  and  the  shout  rent  the  sky, 
For  every  voice  joined  in  the'  tally-ho  cry, 

Tally-ho  !     Hark  forward  ! 

Tally-ho !     Tally-ho  1 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        135 


MRS.  W.  H.  CHESSON  (NORA  HOPPER) 
(1871-1906) 

NIAM 

MOUTH  of  the  rose  and  hair  like  a  cloud  — 
After  my  feet  the  wind  grows  loud  : 
The  red  East  Wind  whose  rumour  has  gone 
From  Tir-nan-Og1  to  Tir-na-Tonn." 
Under  my  feet  the  windflower  grows, 
After  my  feet  the  shadows  run, 
Over  my  feet  the  long  grass  blows. 
All  things  hail  me  and  call  me  on 
Out  of  the  darkness  into  the  sun, 
Love  and  Beauty  and  Youth  in  one. 

Under  my  feet  the  windflower  grows. 
Men  called  me  Niam  when  first  arose 
My  splendid  star :  but  what  now  ye  call 
Me,  do  I  heed  if  I  hear  at  all  ? 
Look  in  my  eyes — are  they  gray  or  blue  ? 
They  are  the  eyes  that  the  Fenians  knew, 
When  out  of  the  sunshine,  into  the  shade, 
I  called  to  Oisin,  and  he  obeyed. 
Across  Fionn's  banner  my  dark  hair  flew, 
And  safe  in  its  leash  my  love  I  drew. 

1  Tir-nan-og,  the  Country  of  Youth. 
4  Tir-na-tonn,  the  Land  under  the  Sea. 


136      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

I  called  to  Oisin  and  he  obeyed  — 

Out  of  the  sunshine  into  the  shade, 

Though  the  words  were  out  and  the  warhorns  blew 

And  wisdom  and  pride  my  voice  gainsaid. 

But  a  hundred  years,  or  a  thousand  years, 

I  kept  my  lover  from  hopes  and  fears  — 

In  Druid  dark  on  my  arm  he  slept. 

Shall  I  not  keep  men  even  as  I  kept? 

'Twixt  a  man  and  his  wisdom  let  blow  my  hair, 

The  man  is  beside  me,  and  wisdom's — where? 


The  Fenians  died  and  the  high  Gods  die, 
But  spring's  immortal,  and  so  am  -I. 
I  am  young,  I  am  swift,  I  am  fair  to  see, 
My  blood  is  the  sap  running  new  in  the  tree. 
Shall  I  not  keep  men  even  as  I  kept 
Oisin  free  from  his  falling  sept  ? 
Who  shall  deny  me,  or  who  gainsay, 
For  the  world  is  beginning  anew  to-day  ? 
Youth  is  glad,  for  the  world  is  wide ; 
Tarry,  O  Youth  !     Love  is  here  at  thy  side. 


The  world  is  beginning  anew  to-day ; 

Fire  is  awake  in  each  clod  of  clay ; 

The  ragweeds  know  what  has  never  been  told 

By  the  old  to  the  young,  or  the  young  to  the  old. 

The  hawthorns  tell  it  in  broad  daylight ; 

The  evening  primrose  awaits  the  night, 

Her  beautiful  secret  she  shuts  in  close 

Till  the  last  late  bee  goes  home  from  the  rose. 

And  I  am  the  secret,  the  flower,  and  the  tree ; 

I  am  Beauty ;  O  Youth,  I  have  blossomed  for  thee. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        137 

THE  CUCKOO  SINGS  IN  THE  HEART  OF 
WINTER 


T 


HE  cuckoo  sings  in  the  heart  of  winter, 

And  all  for  Mauryeen  he  tunes  his  song ; 
How  Mauryeen 's  hair  is  the  honey's  color. 
(He  sings  of  her  all  the  winter  long  !) 


Her  long  loose  hair's  of  the  honey's  color, 
The  wild  sweet  honey  that  wild  bees  make. 

The  sun  herself  is  ashamed  before  her, 
The  moon  is  pale  for  her  gold  cool's  sake. 

She  bound  her  hair,  of  the  honey's  colour, 
With  flowers  of  yarrow  and  quicken  green  : 

And  now  one  binds  it  with  leaves  of  willow, 
And  cypress  lies  where  my  head  has  been. 


Now  robins  sing  beside  Pastheen's  doorway, 
And  wrens  for  bounty  that  Grania  gave : 

The  cuckoo  sings  in  the  heart  of  winter ; 
He  sings  all  day  beside  Mauryeen's  grave. 


THE  DARK  MAN 

ROSE  o'  the  World,  she  came  to  my  bed 
And  changed  the  dreams  of  my  heart  and 

head; 

For  joy  of  mine  she  left  grief  of  hers, 
And  garlanded  me  with  a  crown  of  furze. 


138      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

Rose  o!  the  World,  they  go  out  and  in, 
And  watch  me  dreajn  and  my  mother  spin  : 
And  they  pity  the  tears  on  my  sleeping  face 
While  my  soul's  away  in  a  fairy  place. 

Rose  o'  the  World,  they  have  words  galore, 
And  wide's  the  swing  of  my  mother's  door: 
And  soft  they  speak  of  my  darkened  eyes  — 
But  what  do  they  know,  who  are  all  so  wise  ? 

Rose  o'  the  World,  the  pain  you  give 
Is  worth  all  days  that  a  man  may  live  — 
Worth  all  shy  prayers  that  the  colleens  say 
On  the  night  that  darkens  the  wedding-day. 

Rose  o'  the  World,  what  man  would  wed 
When  he  might  dream  of  your  face  instead  ?  — 
Might  go  to  his  grave  with  the  blessed  pain 
Of  hungering  after  your  face  again  ? 

Rose  o'  the  World,  they  may  talk  their  fill, 
For  dreams  are  good,  and  my  life  stands  still 
While  their  lives'  red  ashes  the  gossips  stir ; 
But  my  fiddle  knows — and  I  talk  to  her. 


THE  FAERY  FOOL 

IF  I'm  the  Faery  fool,  Dalua  — 
Ay  me,  the  Faery  fool  ! 
How  do  I  know  what  the  rushes  say, 
Sighing  and  shuddering  all  the  day 
Over  their  shadowy  pool  ? 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        139 

How  do  I  know  what  the  North  Wind  cries 

Herding  his  flocks  of  snow  ? 
The  menace  that  lies  in  the  Hunter's  eyes 

How  do  I  know  ? 

If  I'm  the  Faery  fool,  Dalua  — 

Ay  me,  the  Faery  fool ! 
I  cry  to  them  that  sent  me  here 
To  laugh  and  jest,  to  geek  and  fleer, 

To  scorn  at  law  and  rule :  — 
"  Why  did  ye  also  give  to  me 
Beauty  and  peace  to  know, 
The  ears  to  hear  and  the  eyes  to  see 

And  the  hands  that  let  all  go  ?  " 

I  cry  to  them  that  bade  me  jest : 
"  Why  made  ye  me  so  slight, 
And  put  a  heart  within  my  breast, 

An  evil  gift,  an  evil  guest, 
To  spoil  me  for  delight  ? 
Made  for  mere  laughter,  answer  why 

Must  I  have  eyes  for  dool  ? 
Take  from  me  tears,  or  let  me  die, 
For  I  am  sick  of  wisdom,  I, 

Dalua,  the  Faery  fool." 

THE  FAIRY  FIDDLER 

TIS  I  go  fiddling,  fiddling, 
By  weedy  ways  forlorn  : 
I  make  the  blackbird's  music 
Ere  in  his  breast  'tis  born ; 
The  sleeping  larks  I  waken 

'Twixt  the  midnight  and  the  morn. 


1 40      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 

No  man  alive  has  seen  me, 
But  women  hear  me  play 

Sometimes  at  door  or  window, 
Fiddling  the  souls  away  — 

The  child's  soul  and  the  colleen's  — 
Out  of  the  covering  clay. 

None  of  my  fairy  kinsmen 
Make  music  with  me  now  : 

Alone  the  raths  I  wander, 

Or  ride  the  whitethorn  bough ; 

But  the  wild  swans  they  know  me, 
And  the  horse  that  draws  the  plow. 


THE  GRAY  FOG 

THERE'S  a  gray  fog  over  Dublin  of  the  curses, 
It  blinds  my  eyes,  mavrone ;   and  stops  my 

breath, 

And  I  travel  slow  that  once  could  run  the  swiftest, 
And  I  fear  ere  I  meet  Mauryeen  I'll  meet  Death. 

There's  a  gray  fog  over  Dublin  of  the  curses, 
And  a  gray  fog  dogs  my  footsteps  as  they  go, 

And  its  long  and  sore  to  tread,  the  road  to  Connaught. 
Is  it  fault  of  brogues  or  feet  I  fare  so  slow  ? 

There's  a  gray  fog  over  Dublin  of  the  curses, 

But  the  Connaught  wind  will  blow  it  from  my  way. 

And  a  Connaught  girl  will  kiss  it  from  my  memory 
If  the  Death  that  walks  beside  me  will  delay. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        141 

(There's  a  gray  fog  over  Dublin  of  the  curses, 
And  no  wind  comes  to  break  its  stillness  deep : 

And  a  Connaughtman  lies  on  the  road  to  Connaught 
And  Mauryeen  will  not  kiss  him  from  his  sleep— 
Ululu  !) 


N 


THE  KING  OF  IRELAND'S  SON 

OW  all  away  to  Tir  na  n'Og  are  many  roads 

that  run, 

But  he  has  ta'en  the  longest  lane,  the  King  of 
Ireland's  son. 


There's  roads  of  hate,  and  roads  of  love,  and  many  a 

middle  way, 
And  castles  keep  the  valleys  deep  where  happy  lovers 

stray  — 

Where  Aongus  goes  there's  many  a  rose  burns  red  mid 
shadows  dun, 

No  rose  there  is  will  draw  his  kiss,  the  King  of  Ire- 
land's son. 

And  yonder,  where  the  sun  is  high,  Love  laughs  amid 

the  hay, 
But  smile  and   sigh  have  passed  him  by,  and  never 

make  delay. 

And  here  (and  O  !  the  sun  is  low  !)  they're  glad  for 

harvest  won, 
But  naught  he  cares  for  wheat  or  tares,  the  King  of 

Ireland's  son  I 


142      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

And  you  have  flung  love's  apple  by,  and  I'm  to  pluck 

it  yet : 
But  what  are  fruits  of  gramarye  with  druid  dews  beset  ? 

Oh  what  are  magic  fruits  to  him  who  meets  the  Lianan- 

sidhe 
Or  hears  athwart  the  distance  dim  Fionn's  horn  blow 

drowsily  ! 

He  follows  on  forever  when  all  your  chase  is  done 
He  follows  after  shadows,  the  King  of  Ireland's  son. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        143 


J.  B.  CLARKE 

(Living} 

EMAN-AC-KNUCK  TO  EVA 

ON    the  white   hawthorn's   bloom,    in    purpling 
streak, 
I  see  the  fairy-ring  of  morning  break, 
On  the  green  valley's  brow  the  golden  glows, 
Kissing  the  crimson  of  the  opening  rose, 
Knits  with  her  thousand  smiles  its  damask  dyes, 
And  laughs  the  season  on  our  hearts  and  eyes. 
Rise,  Eva,  rise  !  fair  spirit  of  my  breast, 
In  whom  I  live,  forsake  the  down  of  rest. 

Lovelier  than  morn,  carnationed  in  soft  hues, 
Sweeter  than  rifled  roses  in  the  dews 
Of  dawn  divinely  weeping — and  more  fair 
Than  the  coy  flowers  fann'd  by  mountain  air ; 
More  modest  than  the  morning's  blushing  smile. 
Rise,  Eva,  rise  !  pride  of  our  Western  Isle  — 
The  sky's  blue  beauties  lose  their  sunny  grace 
Before  the  calm,  soft  splendours  of  thy  face. 

Thy  breath  is  sweeter  than  the  apple  bloom, 
When  spring's  musk'd  spirit  bathes  it  in  perfume; 
The  rock's  wild  honey  steeps  thy  rubied  lip  — 
Rise,  Eva,  rise  !  I  long  these  sweets  to  sip. 


144      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURr  OF 

The  polish'd  ringlets  of  thy  jetty  locks 
Shame  the  black  raven's  on  the  sun-gild  rocks; 
Thy  neck  can  boast  a  whiter,  lovelier  glow, 
Than  the  wild  cygnet's  silvery  plume  of  snow. 


And  from  thy  bosom,  the  soft  throne  of  bliss, 
The  witch  of  love,  in  all  her  blessedness, 
Heaves  all  her  spells,  wings  all  her  feathered  darts, 
And  dips  her  arrows  in  adoring  hearts. 
Rise,  Eva,  rise  !  the  sun  sheds  his  sweet  ray, 
Am'rous  to  kiss  thee — rise,  my  love  !  we'll  stray 
Across  the  mountain,  on  the  blossomy  heath, 
The  heath-bloom  holds  for  thee  its  odorous  breath. 


From  the  tall  crag,  aspiring  to  the  skies, 
I'll  pick  for  thee  the  strings  of  strawberries; 
The  yellow  nuts,  too,  from  the  hazel-tree  — 
Soul  of  my  heart ! — I'll  strip  to  give  to  thee : 
As  thy  red  lips  the  berries  shall  be  bright, 
And  the  sweet  nuts  shall  be  as  rife  and  white 
And  milky,  as  the  love-begotten  tide 
That  fills  thy  spotless  bosom,  my  sweet  bride. 


Queen  of  the  smile  of  joy  !  shall  I  not  kiss 

Thee  in  the  moss-grown  cot,  bless'd  bower  of  bliss- 

Shall  not  thy  rapturous  lover  clasp  thy  charms, 

And  fold  his  Eva  in  his  loving  arms  — 

Shall  Inniscather's  wood  again  attest 

Thy  beauties  strain'd  unto  this  burning  breast? 

Absent  how  long  !     Ah  !  when  wilt  thou  return  ? 

When  shall  this  wither'd  bosom  cease  to  mourn? 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        145 

Eva,  why  stay  so  long  ?  why  leave  me  lone, 
In  the  deep  valley,  to  the  cold  gray  stone 
Pouring  my  plaints?     O  come,  divinest  fair  ! 
Chase  from  my  breast  the  demon  of  despair. 
The  winds  are  witness  to  my  deep  distress, 
Like  the  lone  wanderer  of  the  wilderness, 
For  thee  I  languish  and  for  thee  I  sigh  — 
My  Eva,  come,  or  thy  poor  swain  shall  die  ! 

And  didst  thou  hear  my  melancholy  lay? 
And  art  thou  coming,  love  ?     My  Eva  !  say  ? 
Thou  daughter  of  a  meek-eyed  dame,  thy  face 
Is  lovelier  than  thy  mother's,  in  soft  grace. 
O  yes  !  thou  comest,  Eva  !  to  my  sight 
An  angel  minister  of  heavenly  light :  — 
The  sons  of  frozen  climes  can  never  see 
Summer's  bright  smile  so  glad  as  I  see  thee : 
Thy  steps  to  me  are  lovelier  than  the  ray 
That  rose  night's  cheek  with  the  blush  of  dayt 


146      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 


JOSEPH  IGNATIUS  CONSTANTINE 
CLARKE 

(1846-        ) 

ROUGH  RIDER  O'NEILL1 

First  recited  by  the  author  at  the  Annual  Dinner  of  the  New 
York  Friendly  Sons  of  St.  Patrick,  March  17,  1905,  at  which 
President  Roosevelt  was  the  guest. 

WHEN  the  cresset  of  war  blazed  over  the  land, 
And  a  call  ran  fierce  thro'  the  West, 
Saying  "Rough  Riders,  come  to  the  roll  of 

the  drum," 

They  came  with  their  bravest  and  best, 
With  a  clatter  of  hoofs  and  a  stormy  hail  — 

Sinewy,  lean,  tall  and  brown  ; 
Hunters  and  fighters  and  men  of  the  trail, 

From  hills  and  plains,  from  college  and  town ; 
With  the  cowboys'  yell  and  the  redman's  whoop, 

Sons  of  thunder  and  swingers  of  steel ; 
And,  leading  his  own  Arizona  troop, 

Rode  glad  and  fearless  "  Bucky  "  O'Neill. 

In  the  ranks  there  was  Irish  blood  galore, 

As  it  ever  is  sure  to  be 
When  the  Union  flag  is  flung  to  the  fore, 

And  the  fight  is  to  make  men  free. 
There  were   Kellys   and  Murphys   and   Burkes  and 
Doyles  — 

1  Copyright  by  J.  I.  C.  Clarke.     By  permission. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        147 

The  colonel  owned  an  O'Brien  strain  — 
And  the  lift  of  the  race  made  a  glow  on  each  face 

When  they  met  on  the  Texan  plain ; 
But  the  man  of  them  all,  with  the  iron  will  — 

Man  and  soldier  from  crown  to  heel ; 
A  leader  and  master  in  games  that  kill  — 

Was  soft- voiced  Captain  "  Bucky  "  O'Neill. 

On  the  watch  in  the  valley  or  charging  the  height, 

In  a  plunge  'cross  the  steep  ravine, 
San  Juan  or  Las  Guasimas,  battle  or  fight, 

Or  a  rush  thro'  the  jungle  screen, 
Where  the  wave  of  the  war  took  the  battling  host 

The  Rough  Riders  fronted  the  storm, 
And  their  dead  on  the  rocks  of  red  glory  tossed 

Amid  spray  with  their  life-blood  warm. 
What  wonder,  then,  holding  his  chivalrous  vow 

To  stoop  not,  nor  crouch  not,  nor  kneel, 
That  Death  in  hot  anger  struck  full  on  the  brow 

Of  the  dauntless  "  Bucky  "  O'Neill. 

O  battle  that  tries  out  the  hearts  of  the  strong, 

To  your  test  he  had  answered  true, 
Who  bent  not  his  head  and  balked  but  at  wrong, 

Nor  murmured  what  billet  he  drew. 
In  the  cast  of  the  terrible  dice  of  doom 

It  came  fair  to  his  hand  as  well 

To  mount   the   high   crest   where   the  great   laurels 
bloom, 

Or  to  die  at  the  foot  where  he  fell. 
And  of  such  are  the  victors,  and  these  alone 

Shall  be  stamped  with  the  hero  seal, 
And  stirrup  to  stirrup  they'll  ride  to  the  throne, 

From  the  colonel  to  "  Bucky  "  O'Neill. 


148      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURr  OF 

THE  FIGHTING  RACE  ' 

"  ~T~\  EAD  out  the  names  !  "  and  Burke  sat  back, 

r^        And  Kelly  drooped  his  head. 

While  Shea— they  call  him  Scholar  Jack  — 

Went  down  the  list  of  the  dead. 
Officers,  seamen,  gunners,  marines, 

The  crews  of  the  gig  and  yawl, 
The  bearded  man  and  the  lad  in  his  teens, 

Carpenters,  coal  passers — all. 
Then,  knocking  the  ashes  from  out  his  pipe, 

Said  Burke  in  an  offhand  way  : 
"  We're  all  in  that  dead  man's  list,  by  Cripe  ! 

Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea." 
"  Well,  here's  to  the  Maine,  and  I'm  sorry  for  Spain," 

Said  Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea. 

"  Wherever  there's  Kellys  there's  trouble,"  said  Burke. 

"  Wherever  fighting's  the  game, 
Or  a  spice  of  danger  in  grown  man's  work," 

Said  Kelly,  "  you'll  find  my  name." 
"And  do  we  fall  short,"  said  Burke,  getting  mad, 

"  When  it's  touch  and  go  for  life  ?  " 
Said  Shea,  "It's  thirty-odd  years,  bedad, 

Since  I  charged  to  drum  and  fife 
Up  Marye's  Heights,  and  my  old  canteen 

Stopped  a  rebel  ball  on  its  way. 
There  were  blossoms  of  blood  on  our  sprigs  of  green  — 

Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea  — 

And  the  dead  didn't  brag."     "Well,  here's  to  the 
flag  !  " 

Said  Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea. 

1  Copyright  by  J.  I.  C.  Clarke.     By  permission. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        149 

"  I  wish  'twas  in  Ireland,  for  there's  the  place," 

Said  Burke,  "that  we'd  die  by  right, 
In  the  cradle  of  our  soldier  race, 

After  one  good  stand-up  fight. 
My  grandfather  fell  on  Vinegar  Hill, 

And  fighting  was  not  his  trade ; 
But  his  rusty  pike's  in  the  cabin  still, 

With  Hessian  blood  on  the  blade." 
"Aye,  aye,"  said  Kelly,  "  the  pikes  were  great 

When  the  word  was  '  clear  the  way  ! ' 
We  were  thick  on  the  roll  in  ninety-eight  — 

Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea." 

"  Well,   here's  to  the  pike  and  the  sword  and  the 
like  !  " 

Said  Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea. 

And  Shea,  the  scholar,  with  rising  joy, 

Said,  "  We  were  at  Ramillies ; 
We  left  our  bones  at  Fontenoy 

And  up  in  the  Pyrenees ; 
Before  Dunkirk,  on  Landen's  plain, 

Cremona,  Lille,  and  Ghent, 
We're  all  over  Austria,  France,  and  Spain, 

Wherever  they  pitched  a  tent. 
We've  died  for  England  from  Waterloo 

To  Egypt  and  Dargai; 
And  still  there's  enough  for  a  corps  or  crew, 

Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea." 
"  Well,  here  is  to  good  honest  fighting  blood  !  " 

Said  Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea. 

"  Oh,  the  fighting  races  don't  die  out, 

If  they  seldom  die  in  bed, 
For  love  is  first  in  their  hearts,  no  doubt," 


150      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

Said  Burke ;  then  Kelly  said  : 
"  When  Michael,  the  Irish  Archangel,  stands, 

The  angel  with  the  sword, 
And  the  battle-dead  from  a  hundred  lands 

Are  ranged  in  one  big  horde, 
Our  line,  that  for  Gabriel's  trumpet  waits, 

Will  stretch  three  deep  that  day, 
From  Jehoshaphat  to  the  Golden  Gates  — 

Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea." 
"  Well,  here's  thank  God  for  the  race  and  the  sod  ! 

Said  Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        151 


HENRY  BRERETON  CODE 

(        -1830) 

THE  SPRIG  OF  SHILLELAH 

OH  !  love  is  the  soul  of  a  neat  Irishman, 
He  loves  all  that  is  lovely,  loves  all  that  he  can, 
With  his  sprig  of  shillelah  and  shamrock  so 

green  ! 

His  heart  is  good-humoured,  'tis  honest  and  sound, 
No  envy  or  malice  is  there  to  be  found ; 
He  courts  and  he  marries,  he  drinks  and  he  fights, 
For  love,  all  for  love,  for  in  that  he  delights, 
With  his  sprig  of  shillelah  and  shamrock  so  green  ! 

Who  has  e'er  had  the  luck  to  see  Donnybrook  Fair  ? 

An  Irishman,  all  in  his  glory,  is  there, 

With  his  sprig  of  shillelah  and  shamrock  so  green  ! 

His  clothes  spick  and  span  new,  without  e'er  a  speck, 

A  neat  Barcelona  tied  round  his  white  neck; 

He  goes  to  a  tent,  and  he  spends  half-a-crown, 

He  meets  with  a  friend,  and  for  love  knocks  him 

down, 
With  his  sprig  of  shillelah  and  shamrock  so  green  ! 

At  evening  returning,  as  homeward  he  goes, 
His  heart  soft  with  whiskey,  his  head  soft  with  blows, 
From  a  sprig  of  shillelah  and  shamrock  so  green  ! 
He  meets  with  his  Sheelah,1  who,  frowning  a  smile, 

1  Sheelah,  sweetheart. 


152      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

Cries,  "  Get  ye  gone,  Pat,"  yet  consents  all  the  while. 
To  the  priest  soon  they  go,  and  a  year  after  that 
A  baby  cries  out,  "  How  d'ye  do,  father  Pat, 
With  your  sprig  of  shillelah  and  shamrock  so  green  !  " 

Bless  the  country,  say  I,  that  gave  Patrick  his  birth, 
Bless  the  land  of  the  oak,  and  its  neighbouring  earth, 
Where  grow  the  shillelah  and  shamrock  so  green  ! 
May  the  sons  of  the  Thames,  the  Tweed,  and  the 

Shannon, 
Drub  the   foes   who  dare  plant  on   our  confines  a 

cannon ;  « 

United  and  happy,  at  Loyalty's  shrine, 
May  the  rose  and  the  thistle  long  flourish  and  twine 
Round  the  sprig  of  shillelah  and  shamrock  so  green  ! 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        153 


PATRICK  JAMES  COLEMAN 
(1867-        ) 

BINDIN'  THE  OATS 

BINDIN1  the  oats  in  sweet  September, 
Don't  you  remember 

That  evening,  dear  ? 
Ah  !  but  you  bound  my  heart  complately, 

Fair  and  nately, 
Snug  in  the  snood  of  your  silken  hair  ! 

Swung  the  sickles,  you  followed  after 

With  musical  laughter 

And  witchin'  eye. 
I  tried  to  reap,  but  each  swathe  I  took,  love, 

Spoiled  the  stock,  love, 
For  your  smile  had  bothered  my  head  awry  ! 

Such  an  elegant,  graceful  binder, 

Where  could  I  find  her 
All  Ireland  through  ? 
Worn't  the  stout,  young,  strappin"  fellows 

Fairly  jealous, 
Dyin',  asthore  machree,  for  you  ? 

Talk  o'  Persephone  pluckin'  the  posies, 
Or  the  red  roses, 
In  Henna's  plain  ! 


154      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

You  vvor  sweeter,  with  cheeks  so  red,  love, 

And  beautiful  head,  love, 
Gatherin'  up  the  golden  grain. 

Bindin'  the  oats  in  sweet  September, 

Don't  you  remember 

The  stolen  pogue  ? l 
How  could  I  help  but  there  deliver 

My  heart  forever 
To  such  a  beautiful  little  rogue  ? 

Bindin'  the  oats,  'twas  there  you  found  me, 

There  you  bound  me 
That  harvest  day ! 
Ah  !  that  I  in  your  blessed  bond,  love. 

Fair  and  fond,  love, 
Happy,  forever  and  ever,  stay  ! 


SEED-TIME 


THE  top  of  the  mornin'  to  you,  Mick, 
Isn't  it  fine  an'  dhry  an'  still  ? 
Just  an  elegant  day,  avic, 

To  stick  the  toleys  on  Tullagh  hill. 
The  field  is  turned,  an'  every  clod 

In  ridge  an'  furrow  is  fresh  an'  brown ; 
So  let's  away,  with  the  help  o'  God, 

By  the  heel  o'  the  evenin'  we'll  have  them  down. 

1  Pogue,  kiss. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       155 

As  long  as  there's  plenty  o'  milk  to  churn, 
An'  plenty  o'  pyaties  in  ridge  an'  furrow, 

By  the  winter  fire  we'll  laugh  to  scorn 
The  frown  o'  famine  an'  scowl  o'  sorrow. 


There's  a  time  to  work,  an'  a  time  to  talk ; 

So,  Patsy,  my  boy,  your  pratin'  shtop  ! 
By  Midsummer  Day,  blossom  an'  stalk, 

We'll  feast  our  eyes  on  a  right  good  crop. 
Oh,  the  purple  blossoms,  so  full  o'  joy, 

Burstin'  up  from  our  Irish  loam, 
They're  betther  than  gold  to  the  peasant  boy ; 

They  crown  him  king  in  his  Irish  home  ! 

As  long  as  the  cows  have  milk  to  churn, 
With  plenty  o'  pyaties  in  ridge  an'  furrow, 

By  the  winter  hearth  we'll  laugh  to  scorn 
The  frown  o'  famine  an'  scowl  o'  sorrow. 

in 

A  year  ago  we  wor  full  o'  hope, 

For  the  stalks  wor  green  by  the  First  o'  May, 
But  the  brown  blight  fell  over  field  an'  slope, 

An'  the  poreens *  rotted  by  Lady  Day. 
You'd  dig  a  ridge  for  a  creel  in  vain ; 

But  he  left  us  still  our  dacint  friends ; 
If  it  comes  again  we  won't  complain  — 

His  will  be  done  ! — it's  the  besht  he  sends ! 

As  long  as  we've  plenty  o1  milk  to  churn, 
An'  plenty  o'  pyaties  in  ridge  an'  furrow, 

1  Poreens,  small  potatoes. 


156      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

By  the  winter  fire  we'll  laugh  to  scorn 
The  frown  o'  famine  an'  scowl  o'  sorrow. 


IV 

An'  whin  the  turfs  in  the  haggard  piled, 

We'll  come,  plase  God  !  with  our  spades  and  loys 
It's  busy  ye' 11  be,  then,  Brigid,  my  child, 

Fillin'  the  baskets  behind  the  boys. 
So  shtick  thim  deep  in  Ould  Ireland's  clay  — 

It's  nearly  dusk,  an'  there's  work  galore ; 
It's  time  enough  in  the  winter  to  play, 

When  the  crop  is  safe  on  our  cabin  floor. 

As  long  as  the  cows  have  milk  to  churn, 
With  plenty  o'  pyaties  in  ridge  an'  furrow, 

By  the  winter  hearth  we'll  laugh  to  scorn 
The  frown  o'  famine  an'  scowl  o'  sorrow. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        157 


PADRAIC  COLUM 

(Living) 


T 


A  DROVER 

O  Meath  of  the  Pastures, 

From  wet  hills  by  the  sea, 
Through  Leitrim  and  Longford 
Go  my  cattle  and  me. 


I  hear  in  the  darkness 

Their  slipping  and  breathing, 
I  name  them  the  byways 

They're  to  pass  without  heeding. 

Then  the  wet,  winding  roads, 
Brown  bogs  with  black  water, 

And  my  thoughts  on  white  ships 
And  the  King  o'  Spain's  daughter. 

O  farmer,  strong  farmer, 
You  can  spend  at  the  fair, 

But  your  face  you  must  turn 
To  your  crops  and  your  care ! 

And  soldiers,  red  soldiers, 

You've  seen  many  lands, 
But  you  march  two  by  two, 

And  by  captain's  commands. 


158      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

O  the  smell  of  the  beasts, 
The  wet  wind  in  the  morn, 

And  the  proud  and  hard  earth 
Never  broken  for  corn  ! 


And  the  crowds  at  the  fair, 

The  herds,  loosened  and  blind ; 

Loud  words  and  dark  faces, 
And  the  wild  blood  behind. 

(O  strong  men  with  your  best 
I  would  strive  breast  to  breast ; 
I  could  quiet  your  herds 
With  my  words,  with  my  words.) 

I  will  bring  you,  my  kine, 

Where  there's  grass  to  the  knee, 

But  you'll  think  of  scant  croppings, 
Harsh  with  salt  of  the  sea. 


DREAM  AND  SHADOW 

YOUR  face  has  not  the  bloom  I  gave 
My  dream  of  you,  my  dream  of  you  ! 
Your  eyes  have  not  her  eyes'  deep  hue, 
Nor  has  your  hair  the  gold  I  wrought 

Out  of  my  dreams  for  head  of  her  — 
M  Bhron  !  I  thought  that  dream  sheen  caught 

From  hair  of  you,  from  hair  of  you  ! 
Pale  lips,  pale  hair,  'tis  not  your  fault : 
A  shadow  of  a  dream  are  you  ! 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        159 

THE  BELLS 

RING,  little  bells,  tormenting  tunes, 
Your  peal  calls  up  my  scoffs  and  sneers ; 
Lo,  all  the  bitter  words  I've  said 
Come  back  and  sting  me  while  you  ring. 

O  forest-bird,  forget  your  songs, 

No  more  built  up  with  these  a  world 

Of  swaying  trees  and  falling  streams. 

O  forest-bird,  with  gold  hairs  bound, 

Built  up  no  more  your  forest-world, 

With  song  caught  from  the  trees  and  streams. 


THE  FLOWER 

SUNSET  and  silence ;  a  man  ;  around  him  earth 
.    savage,  earth  broken  : 
Beside  him  two  horses,  a  plow  ! 

Earth  savage,  earth  broken,  the  brutes,  the  dawn-man 

there  in  the  sunset  I 
And  the  plow  that  is  twin  to  the  sword,  that  is  founder 

of  cities  ! 

"  Brute-tamer,    plow -maker,    earth-breaker  !      Canst 

hear  ?     There  are  ages  between  us ! 
Is  it  praying  you  are  as  you  stand  there,  alone  in  the 

sunset  ? 

"  Surely  our  sky-born  gods  can  be  nought  to  you, 

Earth-child  and  Earth-master  ! 
Surely  your   thoughts   are  of    Pan,  or  of  Wotan  or 

Dana  ! 


160     THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

"  Yet  why  give  thought  to  the  gods  ?     Has  Pan  led 

your  brutes  where  they  stumble  ? 
Has  Wotan  put  hands  to  your  plow  or  Dana  numbed 

pain  of  the  child-bed  ? 

"  What  matter  your  foolish  reply,  O  man  standing 

lone  and  bowed  earthward. 
Your  task  it  is  a  day  near  its  close.     Give  thanks  to 

the  night-giving  God." 

Slowly  the  darkness  falls,  the  broken  lands  blend  with 

the  savage, 
The  brute-tamer  stands  by  the  brutes,  by  a  head's 

breadth  only  above  them  ! 

A  head's  breadth,  ay,  but  therein  is  Hell's  depth  and 

the  height  up  to  Heaven, 
And  the  thrones  of  the  gods,  and  their  halls  and  their 

chariots,  purples  and  splendours. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        161 


WILLIAM  CONGREVE 

(1670-1729) 

AMORET 

kAIR  Amoret  is  gone  astray ; 

Pursue  and  seek  her,  ev'ry  lover ; 
I'll  tell  the  signs  by  which  you  may 
The  wandering  shepherdess  discover. 

Coquet  and  coy  at  once  her  air, 

Both  studied,  though  both  seem  neglected ; 
Careless  she  is  with  artful  care, 

Affecting  to  seem  unaffected. 

With  skill  her  eyes  dart  every  glance, 

Yet  change  so  soon  you'd  ne'er  suspect  them ; 

For  she'd  persuade  they  wound  by  chance, 
Though  certain  aim  and  art  direct  them. 

She  likes  herself,  yet  others  hates 
For  that  within  herself  she  prizes; 

And,  while  she  laughs  at  them,  forgets 
She  is  the  thing  that  she  despises. 

EXTRACTS  FROM  THE  "  MOURNING  BRIDE  " 

MUSIC  has  charms  to  soothe  a  savage  breast, 
To  soften  rocks,  or  bend  a  knotted  oak. 
I've  read,  that  things  inanimate  have  moved, 
And,  as  with  living  souls,  have  been  informed 
By  magic  numbers  and  persuasive  sound. 


162      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 

Vile  and  ingrate  !  too  late  thou  shalt  repent 
The  base  injustice  thou  hast  done  my  love  : 
Yes,  thou  shalt  know,  spite  of  thy  past  distress, 
And  all  those  ills  which  thou  so  long  hast  mourned 
Heav'n  has  no  rage  like  love  to  hatred  turned, 
Nor  hell  a  fury  like  a  woman  scorned. 


Seest  thou  how  just  the  hand  of  heav'n  has  been  ? 
Let  us,  who  through  our  innocence  survive, 
Still  in  the  paths  of  honour  persevere, 
And  not  from  past  or  present  ills  despair ; 
For  blessings  ever  wait  on  virtuous  deeds ; 
And  though  a  late,  a  sure  reward  succeeds. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        163 


DANIEL  CONNOLLY 

(1836-1890) 

COMPENSATION 

YES,  the  years  are  passing  quickly ;  months  seem 
days  and  days  but  hours. 
Gloom  is  o'er  us,  dearth  around  us,  ere  we've 

gathered  summer's  flowers. 

And  the  swiftly  changing  seasons,  sped  by  time's  un- 
wearied wing, 

Mingle  suns  and  snows  together,  hastening  on  from 
spring  to  spring. 

'Twas  not  so,  my  friend  and  comrade,  when  to  us  the 
world  was  new, 

Then  the  fields  were  ever  blooming  and  the  skies  were 
always  blue ; 

And  a  yearning  spirit  filled  us  to  leave  youth  behind 
and  stand 

Firm  on  manhood's  highway,  scanning  all  the  prom- 
ised golden  land. 

Ah,  those  years  of  wistful  dreaming  !     Had  we  known 

what  things  should  be 
In   the   future's   plains  and  valleys,   on  its  surging, 

storm -beat  sea, 
Would  desire  have  spurred  us  onward,  from  the  simple 

ways  which  then 
Blossomed  round  us,  to  the  thorn  set  paths  that  tire 

the  feet  of  men  ? 


1 64      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

Naught  behind  had  power  to  hold  us ;  all  before  had 
charms  to  woo. 

Hope  to  me  held  forth  her  garlands,  Love  her  rose- 
wreathed  crown  to  you ; 

Hope  has  vanished,  Love  has  perished  ;  dust  lies  deep 
on  rose  and  bay, 

Yet  though  storm  and  gloom  beset  us,  sunshine  oft  has 
warmed  our  way. 


Many  a  face  has  smiled  upon  us,  brightening  hours 
that  else  were  drear, 

Many  an  eye  with  kindness  kindled,  sparkling  friend- 
ship, glancing  cheer ; 

O'er  the  scenes  now  fading  from  us,  many  a  drifting 
cloud  has  strayed, 

Yet  my  friend,  when  all  is  balanced,  we  have  seen 
more  sun  than  shade. 


Dreams  are  gone,  the  world  is  real ;  this  we've  learned 

and  this  we  know  : — 
Though  we  build  Utopian  mansions,  still  our  feet  must 

tread  below ; 
All  the  gloss  and  glow  that  fancy  spreads  to  lure  the 

steps  of  youth, 
Fast  recede  and  faster  vanish,  driven  by  staid,  prosaic 

truth. 


Now  with    grave-eyed   age  advancing,    heralded   by 

silvery  gleams, 
Though  the  locks  that  late  were  ebon,  every  season 

shorter  seems ; 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        165 

Spring  makes  fluttering  haste  for  summer,  autumn 
grasps  the  flowers  of  June, 

Winter's  fretful  shadows  flit  before  September's  mel- 
low moon. 


Ours  is  not  a  new  experience;  nay  'tis  much  as  other 
men's ; 

Since  time's  earliest  cycle  human  hearts  have  pon- 
dered, nows  and  thens ; 

This,  at  least,  the  years  have  taught  us :  roses  bloom 
where  snow  has  lain, 

And  the  sun,  though  darkness  'whelm  it,  shines  and 
glorifies  again. 


MEMORIES  OF  THE  ERNE 

THE  summer  days  are  darker  now,  the  wintery 
days  more  drear, 
And  leaf  and  flower  in  glen  and  bower,  more 

sombre  seem  and  sere, 
Than  when  in  boyhood's  sunny  days,  which  knew  no 

hour  of  shade, 
Along  thy  banks,  O  stately  Erne,  with  idle   steps   I 

strayed  ! 
'Twas  five  and  twenty  years  ago  and  long  years  they 

have  been, 
Yet  freshly  still  before  me  spreads  the  fair,  familiar 

scene. — 
The  blooming  slopes,  the  billowy  fields,  the  winding 

paths  and  ways, 

The  woodlands  near,  the  hills  afar,  all  veiled  in  mystic 
haze. 


1 66      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURr  OF 

And  gliding  grandly  to  the  sea,  with  many  a  flash  and 

gleam 
And  many  a  curve  by  swelling  shores  the  dear  old 

storied  stream, 
That  flows  and  frets  o'er  ford  and  fall,  to  meet  the 

waves  below, 
And  murmurs  still  the  song  it  sang  a  thousand  years 

ago. 

To  thee,  Belleek,  where  anglers  came  from  all  the 

country  round, 
And  simple  lives  of  lowly  toil  by  simple  joys  were 

crowned ; 
And    thee,    Rose-isle,    whose    ivy-crested    crumbling 

tower  hath  stood, 
Through   centuries  a  warder  gray  above  the  foamy 

flood. 
And  thee,  Tetuny,  blandly  calm,  within  whose  solemn 

shade 
The  mingled  dust  of  sire  and  son  in  peaceful  rest  is 

laid. 
Corlea's   green   vale,    Cliff's   stately   halls,    Laputa's 

emerald  grove; 
Fair  Camlin  woods  and  Kathleen's  Fall  long  famed  in 

lays  of  love. 
To  Ballyshannon's  shingly  strand  and  bright  Bundoran 

Bay  — 
To  each  and  every  dear  old  spot  doth  memory  fondly 

stray ! 
Much  changed,  I  fear,  is  all  the  scene,  yet  grandly 

dost  thou  flow, 
O  stately  stream,  as  erst  thou  didst  a  thousand  years 

ago! 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        167 

A  mother  parted  from  her  child  whose  absence  spans 

the  years, 
Sees   not,    when   gazing   fond   and   far,    with   vision 

dimmed  by  tears, 
A   stalwart   form,  with   bearded   face   and  vigorous, 

manly  ways, 
But  still  beholds  the  darling  boy  she  clasped  in  happy 

days; 
The  boy  may  be  to  manhood  grown,  and  all  his  ways 

be  strange, 
But  to  the  mother's  wistful  eye  Time's  hand  hath 

wrought  no  change ; 
And    thus   doth   faithful   memory   still   preserve   the 

favourite  scene, 
And  picture  o'er  each  cherished  charm,  though  long 

years  intervene; 
Mayhap  the  scene  is  sadly  changed  and  many  a  charm 

decayed, 
But  o'er  the  lamp  that  memory  holds  no  darkening 

hand  is  laid. 
New  footsteps  press  thy  banks,  O  Erne,  but  still  thy 

waters  flow 
With  rhythmic  murmur  as  they  did  a  thousand  years 

ago! 

Since  last  like  soothing  strains  at  eve,  their  rippling 
cadence  fell, 

On  ears  not  then  attuned  to  notes  of  prouder,  loftier 
swell. 

I've  stood  where  Hudson's  mighty  tide,  sweeps  down- 
ward to  the  sea, 

And  gazed  on  Mississippi's  grand  expanse  of  majesty; 

Potomac's  war-scarred  shore  I've  seen  by  summer 
bloom  made  fair 


168      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

And  climbed  the  hills  which  sentinel  the  lordly  Dela- 
ware; 

By  many  a  sylvan  stream  I've  strayed,  and  many  a 
mossy  shore 

Where  varying  splendors  glorified  the  emerald  land- 
scape o'er. 

To  each  and  all  in  north  and  south,  and  east  and 
bounteous  west, 

I  freely  grant  a  generous  meed  and  hold  their  charms 
confessed ; 

But  still  to  thee  my  heart  returns,  and  all  its  currents 
flow, 

Dear  Erne,  still  murmuring  as  thou  didst  a  thousand 
years  ago. 


Alas  !   that  from  the  peaceful  vale  where  calm  con- 
tentment smiled, 
And  simple  pleasures,  sweetly  pure,  the  passing  hours 

beguiled. — 
Alas !   that  thence  thy  children's  steps,  in  youth  or 

age  should  turn, 
No  more  to  press  thy  blooming  banks  and  flowery 

paths  O  Erne ! 
But  chance  and  fate,  hath  thus  decreed,  and  were  I 

now  to  stand 
Upon  thy  shores,  this  face  might  be,  a  strange  one  in 

the  land. 
The  kindly  friends,  the  comrades  dear,  whom  last  I 

saw  through  tears, 
Are  changed,  I  ween  as  much  as  I,  by  five  and  twenty 

years  ! 
And   some   in    calm   Tetuny  sleep,   and    some   have 

strayed  afar, 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       169 

To  dree  or  die  'neath  tropic  sun  or  glittering  northern 

star. 
But  thou  bright  Erne,  thy  course  doth  run  to  meet 

the  waves  below, 
And  chanteth  still  the  song  they  heard  a  thousand 

years  ago. 


TROUT  FISHING 

ACROSS  the  fields  and  through  the  dew 
Still  sparkling  on  the  blossoming  clover, 
We  lightly  trudge,  with  all  the  blue 

Broad  arch  of  morning  beaming  over ; 
The  woods  before  are  dark  and  cool, 

With  here  and  there  a  golden  glimmer, 
And  over  many  a  wayside  pool 

A  gleam,  a  flash,  a  shade,  a  shimmer. 

By  winding  paths  and  mossy  lanes, 

All  brightly  fringed  with  flower  and  berry, 
We  pass,  nor  pause  to  note  the  strains, 

Of  woodland  .warblers  blithe  and  merry. 
Our  thoughts  are  bent  on  "  cast "  and  "  play." 

We  hardly  heed  the  splendor  o'er  us, 
But  haste  with  quickening  steps  away 

To  reach  the  glorious  sport  before  us. 

With  lisping,  low-voiced  monotone, 

The  brook  flows  by  in  curves  and  sallies, 

And  bears  its  rippling  music  down 
To  daisied  slopes  and  verdant  valleys ; 


1 70      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

Through  serried  pines  the  sunlight  falls, 
Like  grains  of  gold  thro'  emerald  drifted, 

And  near,  the  cleft  and  towering  walls 
Of  ledge  and  cliff  to  heaven  are  lifted. 

Soft  winds  blow  down  from  ridge  and  grove 

Where  balsam  boughs  are  gently  swaying, 
And  round  a  silvery  beech  above 

Two  heedless  squirrels  briskly  playing. 
But  now  to  work  with  rod  and  line, 

And  dainty  flies  on  trusted  leader ; 
We'll  take  the  first  auspicious  sign, 

And  cast  below  yon  slanting  cedar. 

A  gleam,  a  splash  !     By  George,  he's  fast ! 

A  lusty  fellow  and  how  he  rushes, 
Now  here,  now  there,  now  swiftly  past 

A  bend  of  fern,  and  alder-bushes  ! 
The  whistling  line  spins  merrily  out ; 

He  leaps  and  flings  a  sparkling  torrent 
Of  crystals  round,  then  wheels  about 

And  heads  straight  up  the  foamy  current ! 

Behind  a  boulder  now  he  darts, 

And  now  across  to  deep  recesses 
Beneath  a  balmy  bank,  then  starts 

For  sheltering  beds  of  tangled  cresses ; 
But  vain,  all  vain,  subdued  at  last, 

He  yields  and  faintly  gasps  and  flounders ; 
'Tis  o'er — your  sportive  hour  is  past, 

O  royal  prince  of  plump  two-pounders  ! 

Again  with  feathery  touch  the  flies 
Dance  lightly  over  pool  and  shallow, 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        171 

And,  darting  through  reflected  skies, 

The  wary  trout  retreat  or  follow  ; 
A  "coachman  "  now  their  fancy  takes, 

Or  now  a  "  miller  "  or  now  a  "  hackle  " 
And  many  a  plungin'  beauty  breaks, 

To  try  our  skill  and  test  our  tackle. 

Still  higher,  higher  mounts  the  sun, 

The  morn  hastes  on  and  noon  is  nearing ; 
Now  varying  sounds  come  borne  upon 

The  breeze  that  blows  o'er  copse  and  clearing : 
The  far  cock-crow,  the  jangling  bell 

That  tells  where  browsing  herds  are  straying ; 
The  quail's  clear  pipe  in  lonely  dell, 

The  woodman's  call,  the  hounds'  deep  braying. 

Still  down  the  grassy  marge  we  go, 

Now  list'ning  to  the  tall  trees  moaning, 
Now  catching  from  a  glade  below 

A  drowsy  mill's  perpetual  droning. 
Still  on: — the  miller's  brown-faced  boy 

Stands  knee-keep  in  the  shining  water, 
And  near,  with  startled  glance  and  coy, 

The  miller's  comely,  dark-eyed  daughter. 

So  through  the  long,  bright  balmy  days 

In  shade  and  sun  alternate  ranging 
We  speed  the  hastening  hours  away, 

Where  scene  and  sound  are  ever  changing. 
Till  all  the  hills  are  dashed  with  gold, 

That  pales  eve's  dimly  dawning  crescent, 
And  twilight  falls  on  field  and  wold, 

Like  veiling  gauze  o'er  forms  quiescent. 


172      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

Soft,  soothing  calm  of  summer  woodsj 

Of  streams  that  chant  in  rhythmic  numbers, 
Of  fragrant,  flowery  solitudes 

Where  peace  with  folded  pinions  slumbers, 
Full  oft  to  thee  doth  fancy  take 

Her  airy  flight  from  burdened  highways, 
To  roam  again  by  brook  or  lake, 

Or  dream  in  leafy  paths  and  byways. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        173 


JAMES  CONNOLLY 

{Living} 


I 


THE  SONG  OF  ILANN 

From  "  Ilann  and Aine" 

LOVED  the  High  King's  Daughter, 

Ah,  she  was  fair  to  see  ! 
Nine  royal  champions  sought  her 

For  queenly  company. 


Brooches  and  silks  they  brought  her 

And  gems  from  oversea, 
But  Aine,  the  High  King's  Daughter, 

Received  them  haughtily. 

A  cunning  charm  I  wrought  her 

Of  gold  and  findruinie, 
As  Danaan  lore  I  taught  her 

Under  the  hazel-tree.  ' 

But  far  away  one  brought  her 
To  a  great  dun  by  the  sea, 

And  there  the  High  King's  Daughter 
Drooped  wan  for  misery. 

And  all  in  vain  I  sought  her 

That  was  so  fair  to  see, 
For  Aine,  the  High  King's  Daughter, 

Had  died  for  love  of  me. 


i74      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 


LUKE  AYLMER  CONOLLY 

(        -1833) 

THE  ENCHANTED  ISLAND 

O  Rathlin's  Isle  I  chanced  to  sail 

When  summer  breezes  softly  blew, 
And  there  I  heard  so  sweet  a  tale 
That  oft  I  wished  it  could  be  true. 


They  said,  at  eve,  when  rude  winds  sleep, 
And  hushed  is  ev'ry  turbid  swell, 

A  mermaid  rises  from  the  deep, 
And  sweetly  tunes  her  magic  shell. 

And  while  she  plays,  rock,  dell,  and  cave, 
In  dying  falls  the  sound  retain, 

As  if  some  choral  spirits  gave 

Their  aid  to  swell  her  witching  strain. 

Then,  summoned  by  that  dulcet  note, 
Uprising  to  th'  admiring  view, 

A  fairy  island  seems  to  float 

With  tints  of  many  a  gorgeous  hue. 

And  glittering  fanes,  and  lofty  towers, 
All  on  this  fairy  isle  are  seen  : 

And  waving  trees,  and  shady  bowers, 
With  more  than  mortal  verdure  green. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        175 

And  as  it  moves,  the  western  sky 
Glows  with  a  thousand  varying  rays ; 

And  the  calm  sea,  tinged  with  each  dye, 
Seems  like  a  golden  flood  of  haze. 

They  also  say,  if  earth  or  stone 
From  verdant  Erin's  hallowed  land 

Were  on  this  magic  island  thrown, 
Forever  fixed  it  then  would  stand. 

But  when  for  this  some  little  boat 

In  silence  ventures  from  the  shore 
The  mermaid  sinks — hushed  is  the  note  — 

The  fairy  isle  is  seen  no  more. 


176      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 


MRS.  JULIA  CRAWFORD 
(i8oo?-i88s?) 

DERMOT  ASTORE 

OH !  Dermot  Astore !  between  waking  and  sleeping 
I  heard  thy  dear  voice,  and  I  wept  to  its  lay ; 
Every  pulse  of  my  heart  the  sweet  measure  was 

keeping 

Till  Killarney's  wild  echoes  had  borne  it  away. 
Oh  !  tell  me,  my  own  love,  is  this  our  last  meeting  ? 
Shall   we   wander  no   more   in   Killarney's   green 

bow'rs, 

To  watch  the  bright  sun  o'er  the  dim  hills  retreating, 
And  the  wild   stag   at  rest  in  his  bed  of  spring 
flow'rs? 

Oh  !  Dermot  Astore,  etc. 

Oh  I    Dermot   Astore  1    how   this   fond   heart  would 

flutter, 

When  I  met  thee  by  night  in  the  shady  boreen, 
And  heard  thine  own  voice  in  a  soft  whisper  utter 
Those   words   of  endearment,   "  Mavourneen   col- 
leen !  " 
I  know  we  must  part,  but  oh  !  say  not  forever, 

That  it  may  be  for  years  adds  enough  to  my  pain ; 
But  I'll  cling  to  the  hope,  that  though  now  we  must 

sever, 
In  some  blessed  hour  I  shall  meet  thee  again. 

Oh  !  Dermot  Astore,  etc. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        177 

KATHLEEN  MAVOURNEEN 

KATHLEEN  MAVOURNEEN  !   the  gray  dawn 
is  breaking, 
The  horn  of  the  hunter  is  heard  on  the  hill ; 
The   lark   from   her   light   wing   the   bright   dew   is 

shaking, — 

Kathleen  Mavourneen  !  what,  slumbering  still  ? 
Oh,  hast  thou  forgotten  how  soon  we  must  sever? 

Oh  !  hast  thou  forgotten  this  day  we  must  part  ? 
It  may  be  for  years,  and  it  may  be  forever  ! 

Oh,  why  art  thou  silent,  thou  voice  of  my  heart  ? 
Oh  !  why  art  thou  silent,  Kathleen  Mavourneen  ? 

Kathleen  Mavourneen,  awake  from  thy  slumbers  1 

The  blue  mountains  glow  in  the  sun's  golden  light ; 
Ah,  where  is  the  spell  that  once  hung  on  my  numbers  ? 

Arise  in  thy  beauty,  thou  star  of  my  night ! 
Mavourneen,  Mavourneen,  my  sad  tears  are  falling, 

To  think  that  from  Erin  and  thee  I  must  part ! 
It  may  be  for  years,  and  it  may  be  forever  ! 

Then  why  art  thou  silent,  thou  voice  of  my  heart  ? 
Then  why  art  thou  silent,  Kathleen  Mavourneen  ? 


178      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURT  OF 


T.  CROFTON  CROKER 

(1798-1854) 


The  following  keen  on  the  death  of  Maurice  Fitzgerald, 
Knight  of  Kerry,  who  was  killed  in  Flanders  about  the  year 
1672,  contains  an  allusion  to  the  superstition  of  the  Banshee, 
common  in  Irish  legend. 

I  HAD  heard  lamentations 
And  sad  warning  cries 
From  the  Banshees  of  many 
Broad  districts  arise. 
I  besought  thee,  O  Christ, 

To  protect  me  from  pain ; 
I  prayed,  but  my  prayers 
They  were  offered  in  vain. 

Acria  from  her  closely 

Hid  nest  did  awake 
The  women  of  wailing 

At  Sur's  rosy  lake. 
From  Glen  Fogra  of  woods 

Came  a  mournful  whine, 
And  all  Kerry's  hags 

Wept  the  lost  Geraldine. 

The  Banshees  of  Youghall 
And  stately  Mogeely 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        179 

Were  joined  in  their  grief 

By  wide  Imokilly. 
Carah  Mona  in  gloom 

Of  deep  sorrow  appears, 
And  all  Kilnameaky's 

Absorbed  into  tears. 

The  prosperous  Saxons 

Were  seized  with  affright ; 
In  Tralee  they  packed  up 

And  made  ready  for  flight ; 
For  there  a  shrill  voice 

At  the  door  of  each  hall 
Was  heard,  and  they  fancied 

Foretelling  their  fall. 

At  Dingle  the  merchants 

In  terror  forsook 
Their  ships  and  their  business ; 

They  trembled  and  shook ; 
Some  fled  to  concealment, — 

The  fools,  thus  to  fly  ! 
For  no  trader  a  Banshee 

Will  utter  a  cry. 

The  Banshee  of  Dunqueen 

In  sweet  song  did  deplore 
To  the  spirit  that  watches 

On  dark  Dun-an-oir, 
And  Ennismore's  maid 

By  the  Feal's  gloomy  wave 
With  her  clear  voice  did  mourn 

For  the  death  of  the  brave. 


i8o      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

On  stormy  Slieve  Mis 

Spread  the  cry  far  and  wide, 
From  steep  Slieve  Finnalenn 

The  wild  eagle  replied. 
'Mong  the  Reeks,  like  the 

Thunder-peal's  echoing  shout, 
It  bursts,  and  deep  bellows 

Bright  Brandon  gives  out. 

Such  warring,  I  thought, 

Could  be  only  for  him ; 
The  blood  shower  that  made 

The  gay  harvest  field  dim, 
The  fiery  tailed  star 

That  a  comet  men  call, 
Were  omens  of  his 

As  of  great  Caesar's  fall. 

The  localities  mentioned  are  lakes,  mountains,  and  glens  in 
the  South  of  Ireland,  in  the  counties  of  Cork,  Limerick,  and 
Kerry. 

THE  LORD  OF  DUNKERRON 

From  "  Fairy  Legends." 

THE  lord  of  Dunkerron — O' Sullivan  More, 
Why  seeks  he  at  midnight  the  sea-beaten  shore  ? 
His  bark  lies  in  haven,  his  hounds  are  asleep ; 
No  foes  are  abroad  on  the  land  or  the  deep. 

Yet  nightly  the  lord  of  Dunkerron  is  known 
On  the  wild  shore  to  watch  and  to  wander  alone ; 
For  a  beautiful  spirit  of  ocean,  'tis  said, 
The  lord  of  Dunkerron  would  win  to  his  bed. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        181 

When,    by    moonlight,    the   waters   were   hushed   to 

repose, 

That  beautiful  spirit  of  ocean  arose ; 
Her  hair,  full  of  luster,  just  floated  and  fell 
O'er  her  bosom,  that  heaved  with  a  billowy  swell. 

Long,  long  had  he  loved  her — long  vainly  essayed 
To  lure  from  her  dwelling  the  coy  ocean  maid  ; 
And  long  had  he  wandered  and  watched  by  the  tide, 
To  claim  the  fair  spirit  O'Sullivan's  bride  ! 

The  maiden  she  gazed  on  the  creature  of  earth, 
Whose  voice  in  her  breast  to  a  feeling  gave  birth  : 
Then  smiled ;  and  abashed  as  a  maiden  might  be, 
Looking  down,  gently  sank  to  her  home  in  the  sea. 

Though  gentle  that  smile,  as  the  moonlight  above, 
O'Sullivan  felt  'twas  the  dawning  of  love, 
And  hope  came  on  hope,  spreading  over  his  mind, 
As  the  eddy  of  circles  her  wake  left  behind. 

The  lord  of  Dunkerron  he  plunged  in  the  waves, 
And  sought,  through  the  fierce  rush  of  waters,  their 

caves; 

The  gloom  of  whose  depths,  studded  over  with  spars, 
Had  the  glitter  of  midnight  when  lit  up  by  stars. 

Who  can  tell  or  can  fancy  the  treasures  that  sleep 
Intombed  in  the  wonderful  womb  of  the  deep  ? 
The  pearls  and  the  gems,  as  if  valueless  thrown 
To  lie  'mid  the  sea- wreck  concealed  and  unknown. 


i&2      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURT  OF 

Down,  down  went  the  maid, — still  the  chieftain  pur- 
sued ; 

Who  flies  must  be  followed  ere  she  can  be  wooed. 
Untempted  by  treasures,  unawed  by  alarms, 
The  maiden  at  length  he  has  clasped  in  his  arms  ! 

They    rose   from   the   deep   by   a   smooth-spreading 

strand, 

Whence  beauty  and  verdure  stretched  over  the  land. 
'Twas  an  isle  of  enchantment !  and  lightly  the  breeze, 
With  a  musical  murmur,  just  crept  through  the  trees. 

The  haze-woven  shroud  of  that  newly-born  isle 
Softly  faded  away  from  a  magical  pile, 
A  palace  of  crystal,  whose  bright-beaming  sheen 
Had  the  tints  of  the  rainbow — red,  yellow,  and  green. 

And  grottoes,  fantastic  in  hue  and  in  form, 

Were  there,  as  flung  up — the  wild  sport  of  the  storm ; 

Yet  all  was  so  cloudless,  so  lovely,  and  calm, 

It  seemed  but  a  region  of  sunshine  and  balm. 

"  Here,  here  shall  we  dwell  in  a  dream  of  delight, 
Where  the  glories  of  earth  and  of  ocean  unite  ! 
Yet,  loved  son  of  earth  !  I  must  from  thee  away ; 
There  are  laws  which  e'en  spirits  are  bound  to  obey ! 

"  Once  more  must  I  visit  the  chief  of  my  race, 
His  sanction  to  gain  ere  I  meet  thy  embrace. 
In  a  moment  I  dive  to  the  chambers  beneath : 
One  cause  can  detain  me — one  only — 'tis  death  !  " 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       183 

They  parted  in  sorrow,  with  vows  true  and  fond ; 
The  language  of  promise  had  nothing  beyond. 
His  soul  all  on  fire,  with  anxiety  burns : 
The  moment  is  gone — but  no  maiden  returns. 

What  sounds  from  the  deep  meet  his  terrified  ear  — 
What  accents  of  rage  and  of  grief  does  he  hear  ? 
What  sees  he  ?  what  change  has  come  over  the  flood  — 
What  tinges  its  green  with  a  jetty  of  blood? 

Can  he  doubt  what  the  gush  of  warm  blood  would  ex- 
plain ? 

That  she  sought  the  consent  of  her  monarch  in  vain  !  — ~ 
For  see  all  around,  in  white  foam  and  froth, 
The  waves  of  the  ocean  boil  up  in  their  wrath  ! 

The  palace  of  crystal  has  melted  in  air, 
And  the  dyes  of  the  rainbow  no  longer  are  there ; 
And  grottoes  with  vapour  and  clouds  are  o'ercast, 
The  sunshine  is  darkness — the  vision  has  past  I 

Loud,  loud  was  the  call  of  his  serfs  for  their  chief; 
They  sought  him  with  accents  of  wailing  and  grief: 
He  heard,  and  he  struggled — a  wave  to  the  shore, 
Exhausted  and  faint,  bears  O' Sullivan  More  ! 


184      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 


REV.  GEORGE  CROLY 

(1780-1860) 

LEONIDAS 

SHOUT  for  the  mighty  men, 
Who  died  along  this  shore  — 
Who  died  within  this  mountain's  glen  ! 
For  never  nobler  chieftain's  head 
Was  laid  on  Valor's  crimson  bed, 

Nor  ever  prouder  gore 
Sprang  forth,  than  theirs  who  won  the  day 
Upon  thy  strand,  Thermopylae  ! 

Shout  for  the  mighty  men, 

Who  on  the  Persian  tents, 
Like  lions  from  their  midnight  den 
Bounding  on  the  slumbering  deer, 
Rush'd — a  storm  of  sword  and  spear;  — 

Like  the  roused  elements, 
Let  loose  from  an  immortal  hand, 
To  chasten  or  to  crush  a  land  ! 

But  there  are  none  to  hear; 

Greece  is  a  hopeless  slave. 
LEONIDAS  !  no  hand  is  near 
To  lift  thy  fiery  falchion  now ; 
No  warrior  makes  the  warrior's  vow 

Upon  thy  sea- wash 'd  grave. 
The  voice  that  should  be  rais'd  by  men, 
Must  now  be  given  by  wave  and  glen. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LTRICS        185 

And  it  is  given  ! — the  surge  — 

The  tree,  the  rock,  the  sand  — 
On  Freedom's  kneeling  spirit  urge, 
In  sounds  that  speak  but  to  the  free, 
The  memory  of  thine  and  thee ! 

The  vision  of  thy  band 
Still  gleams  within  the  glorious  dell 
Where  their  gore  hallow'd  as  it  fell ! 

And  is  thy  grandeur  done  ? 

Mother  of  men  like  these  ! 
Has  not  thy  outcry  gone, 
Where  Justice  has  an  ear  to  hear  ? — 
Be  holy  !  God  shall  guide  thy  spear ; 

Till  in  thy  crimson'd  seas 
Are  plunged  the  chain  and  scimitar, 
GREECE  shall  be  a  new-born  Star  ! 


THE  ISLAND  OF  ATLANTIS 

"  For  at  that  time  the  Atlantic  Sea  was  navigable,  and  had  an 
island  before  that  mouth  which  is  called  by  you  Pillars  of  Her- 
cules. But  this  island  was  greater  than  both  Lybya  and  all 
Asia  together,  and  afforded  an  easy  passage  to  other  neighbour- 
ing islands,  as  it  was  easy  to  pass  from  those  islands  to  all  the 
continent  which  borders  on  this  Atlantic  Sea.  .  .  .  But,  in 
succeeding  times,  prodigious  earthquakes  and  deluges  taking 
place,  and  bringing  with  them  desolation  in  the  space  of  one 
day  and  night,  all  that  warlike  race  of  Athenians  was  at  once 
merged  under  the  earth  ;  and  the  Atlantic  island  itself,  being 
absorbed  in  the  sea,  entirely  disappeared." — flato's  Timceus. 

H  !  thou  Atlantic,  dark  and  deep, 

Thou  wilderness  of  waves, 
Where  all  the  tribes  of  earth  might  sleep 
In  their  uncrowded  graves ! 


o 


186      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

The  sunbeams  on  thy  bosom  wake, 

Yet  never  light  thy  gloom  ; 
The  tempests  burst,  yet  never  shake 

Thy  depths,  thou  mighty  tomb  ! 

Thou  thing  of  mystery,  stern  and  drear, 
Thy  secrets  who  hath  told  ?  — 

The  warrior  and  his  sword  are  there, 
The  merchant  and  his  gold. 

There  lie  their  myriads  in  thy  pall, 

Secure  from  steel  and  storm  ; 
And  he,  the  feaster  of  them  all, 

The  canker-worm. 

Yet  on  this  wave  the  mountain's  brow 
Once  glowed  in  morning's  beam  ; 

And,  like  an  arrow  from  the  bow, 
Out  sprang  the  stream : 

And  on  its  bank  the  olive  grove, 

And  the  peach's  luxury, 
And  the  damask  rose — the  night-bird's  love 

Perfumed  the  sky. 

Where  art  thou,  proud  Atlantis,  now  ? 

Where  are  thy  bright  and  brave? 
Priest,  people,  warriors'  living  flow  ? 

Look  on  that  wave. 

Crime  deepened  on  the  recreant  land, 

Long  guilty,  long  forgiven  ; 
There  power  npreared  the  bloody  hand, 

There  scoffed  at  Heaven. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        187 

The  word  went  forth — the  word  of  woe  — 

The  judgment-thunders  pealed ; 
The  fiery  earthquake  blazed  below  ; 

Its  doom  was  sealed. 

Now  on  his  halls  of  ivory 

Lie  giant  weed  and  ocean  slime, 
Burying  from  man's  and  angel's  eye 

The  land  of  crime. 


1 88      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 


A  LAMENT1 

From  the  Irish  of  John  O' '  Neachtan. 

DARK  source  of  my  anguish  !  deep  wound  of  a 
land 
Whose  young  and  defenseless  the  loss  will 

deplore ; 
The  munificent  spirit,  the  liberal  hand, 

Still  stretched  the  full  bounty  it  prompted  to  pour. 

The  stone  is  laid  o'er  thee  !  the  fair  glossy  braid, 
The  high  brow,  the  light  cheek  with  its  roseate 

glow; 
The  bright  form,  and  the  berry  that  dwelt  and  could 

fade 
On  these  lips,  thou  sage  giver,  all,  all  are  laid  low. 

Like  a  swan  on  the  billows,  she  moved  in  her  grace, 
Snow-white  were  her  limbs,  and  with  beauty  replete, 

And  time  on  that  pure  brow  had  left  no  more  trace 
Than  if  he  had  sped  with  her  own  fairy  feet. 

i  This  poem  is  a  lament  for  Mary  D'Este,  Queen  of  James  II. 
She  died  at  St.  Germain,  April  26,  1718.  Her  son,  called 
James  Francis  Edward,  was  the  Chevalier  De  St.  George,  so 
much  beloved  by  the  Irish. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        189 

Whatever  of  purity,  glory,  hath  ever 

Been    linked   with    the   name,    lovely   Mary,    was 

thine  ; 
Woe,    woe,    that   the   tomb,    ruthless  tyrant,   should 

sever 
The  tie  which  our  spirits  half  broken  resign. 

Than  Caesar  of  hosts — the  true  darling  of  Rome, 

Far  prouder  was  James — where  pure  spirits  are  met, 
The    virgin,    the    saint — though    heav'n's    radiance 

illume 

Their  brows — Erin's  wrongs  can  o'ershadow  them 
yet. 

And  rank  be  the  poison,  the  plagues  that  distil 

Through  the  heart  of  the  spoiler  that  laid  them  in 
dust, 

The  rapt  bard  with  the  glory  the  nations  shall  fill, 
With  the  fame  of  his  patrons,  the  generous,  the  just. 

Wherever  the  beam  of  the  morning  is  shed, 

With  its  light  the  full  fame  of  our  loved  ones  hath 

shone, 

The  deep  curse  of  our  sorrow  shall  burst  on  his  head 
That  hath  hurled  them,  the  pride  of  our  hearts, 
from  their  throne. 

The  midday  is  dark  with  unnatural  gloom  — 
And  a  spectral  lament  wildly  shrieked  in  the  air 

Tells   all   hearts   that   our  princess  lies  cold  in  the 

tomb, 
Bids  the  old  and  the  young  bend  in  agony  there ! 


igo      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 

Faint  the  lowing  of  kine  o'er  the  seared  yellow  lawn  ! 

And  tuneless  the  warbler  that  droops  on  the  spray  ! 

The  bright  tenants  that  flashed  through  the  current 

are  gone, 
For  the  princess  we  honoured  is  laid  in  the  clay. 

Darkly  brooding  alone  o'er  his  bondage  and  shame, 
By  the  shore  in  mute  agony  wanders  the  Gael,  — 

And  sad  is  my  spirit,  and  clouded  my  dream, 

For  my  king,  for  the  star,  my  devotion  would  hail. 

What  woe  beyond  this  hath  dark  fortune  to  wreak  ? 

What  wrath  o'er  the  land  yet  remains  to  be  hurled  ? 
They  turn  them  to  Rome  !  but  despairing  they  shriek, 

For  Spain's  flag  in  defeat  and  defection  is  furled. 

Though  our  sorrows  avail  not,  our  hope  is  not  lost  — 

For  the  Father  is  mighty  !  the  highest  remains  I 
The  loosed  waters  rushed  down  upon  Pharaoh's  wide 

host, 

But   the   billows  crouch   back   from   the   foot  He 
sustains. 

Just  Power  !  that  for  Moses  the  wave  did'st  divide, 
Look  down  on  the  land  where  thy  followers  pine  ; 

Look  down  upon  Erin,  and  crush  the  dark  pride 
Of  the  scourge  of  thy  people,  the  foes  of  thy  shrine. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        191 


JOHN  PHILPOT  CURRAN 
(1750-1817) 

CUSHLA-MA-CHREE » 

DEAR  Erin,  how  sweetly  thy  green  bosom  rises, 
An  emerald  set  in  the  ring  of  the  sea, 
Each  blade  of  thy  meadows  my  faithful  heart 

prizes, 

Thou  Queen  of  the  West,  the  world's  cushla-ma- 
chree.1 
Thy  gates  open  wide  to  the  poor  and  the  stranger, 

There  smiles  hospitality,  hearty  and  free ; 
Thy  friendship  is  seen  in  the  moment  of  danger, 
And  the  wanderer  is  welcomed  with  cushla-ma-chree. 


Thy  sons  they  are  brave,  but,  the  battle  once  over, 

In  brotherly  peace  with  their  foes  they  agree, 
And  the  roseate  cheeks  of  thy  daughters  discover 

The  soul-speaking  flush  that  says  cushla-ma-chree. 
Then  flourish  forever,  my  dear  native  Erin, 

While  sadly  I  wander  an  exile  from  thee, 
And  firm  as  thy  mountains,  no  injury  fearing, 

May  Heaven  defend  its  own  cushla-ma-chree. 

1  Cushla-ma-chree,  Pulse  of  my  heart. 


192      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURT  OF 

THE  DESERTER'S  MEDITATION 

IF  sadly  thinking,  with  spirits  sinking, 
Could  more  than  drinking  my  cares  compose, 
A  cure  for  sorrow  from  sighs  I'd  borrow, 

And  hope  to-morrow  would  end  my  woes. 
But  as  in  wailing  there's  nought  availing, 

And  Death  unfailing  will  strike  the  blow, 
Then  for  that  reason,  and  for  a  season, 
Let  us  be  merry  before  we  go  ! 

To  joy  a  stranger,  a  way-worn  ranger, 

In  ev'ry  danger  my  course  I've  run ; 
Now  hope  all  ending,  and  death  befriending, 

His  last  aid  lending,  my  cares  are  done ; 
No  more  a  rover,  or  hapless  lover, 

My  griefs  are  over — my  glass  runs  low ; 
Then  for  that  reason,  and  for  a  season, 

Let  us  be  merry  before  we  go  ! 


THE  MONKS  OF  THE  SCREW1 

WHEN  Saint  Patrick  this  order  established, 
He  called  us  the  "  Monks  of  the  Screw  "  ; 
Good  rules  he  revealed  to  our  Abbot 
To  guide  us  in  what  we  should  do; 
But  first  he  replenished  our  fountain 

With  liquor  the  best  in  the  sky ; 
And  he  said,  on  the  word  of  a  saint, 
That  the  fountain  should  never  run  dry. 

1  The  "  Order  of  St.  Patrick,"  or  »  Monks  of  the  Screw," 
was  a  convivial  society,  intended  to  discover  and  encourage 
the  wit,  humour,  and  intellectual  power  of  its  members. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        193 

Each  year,  when  your  octaves  approach, 

In  full  chapter  convened  let  me  find  you ; 
And  when  to  the  Convent  you  come, 

Leave  your  favourite  temptation  behind  you. 
And  be  not  a  glass  in  your  Convent, 

Unless  on  a  festival  found  ; 
And,  this  rule  to  enforce,  I  ordain  it 

One  festival  all  the  year  round. 

My  brethren,  be  chaste,  till  you're  tempted ; 

While  sober,  be  grave  and  discreet ; 
And  humble  your  bodies  with  fasting, 

As  oft  as  you've  nothing  to  eat. 
Yet,  in  honour  of  fasting,  one  lean  face 

Among  you  I'd  always  require ; 
If  the  Abbot  should  please,  he  may  wear  it, 

If  not,  let  it  come  to  the  Prior. 

Come,  let  each  take  his  chalice,  my  brethren, 
And  with  due  devotion  prepare, 

The  Convent,  as  it  was  called,  or  place  of  meeting,  was  in 
St.  Kevin  Street,  Dublin,  and  it  was  the  custom  for  the  mem- 
bers to  assemble  every  Saturday  evening  during  the  law  term. 
They  had  also  another  meeting-place  near  Rathfarnham,  Cur- 
ran's  country  seat,  which  he  appropriately  called  The  Priory,  he 
being  elected  Prior.  The  furniture  of  the  festive  apartment  in 
Dublin  was  completely  monkish,  and  at  the  meetings  all  the 
members  appeared  in  the  habit  of  the  order,  a  black  tabinet 
domino.  The  members  of  the  club  were  nearly  all  distinguished 
men,  including  Lord  Mornington  (composer  of  the  celebrated 
glee  "  Here  in  Cool  Grot  "),  the  Marquis  of  Townshend  (when 
Viceroy),  Yelverton  (afterwards  Lord  Avonmore),  Dr.  O'Leary, 
Grattan,  Flood,  George  Ogle,  Judge  Johnson,  Hussey  Burgh, 
Lord  Kilwarden,  and  the  Earl  of  Arran.  It  lasted  till  1795. 
See,  also,  the  story  with  this  title  by  Charles  J.  Lever. 


194      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

With  hands  and  with  voices  uplifted, 
Our  hymn  to  conclude  with  a  prayer. 

May  this  chapter  oft  joyously  meet, 
And  this  gladsome  libation  renew, 

To  the  Saint,  and  the  Founder,  and  Abbot, 
And  Prior,  and  Monks  of  the  Screw  ! 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        195 


JOHN  D'ALTON 
(1792-1867) 

CLARAGH'S  LAMENT 

Translated  from  the  Irish  of  John  MacDonnell 

THE  tears  are  ever  in  my  wasted  eye, 
My  heart  is  crushed,  and  my  thoughts  are 
sad; 

For  the  son  of  chivalry  was  forced  to  fly, 
And  no  tidings  come  from  the  soldier  lad. 

Chorus. — My  heart  it  danced  when  he  was  near, 
My  hero  !  my  Caesar  !  my  Chevalier  ! 
But  while  he  wanders  o'er  the  sea 
Joy  can  never  be  joy  to  me. 

Silent  and  sad  pines  the  lone  cuckoo, 

Our  chieftains  hang  o'er  the  grave  of  joy ; 

Their  tears  fall  heavy  as  the  summer's  dew 
For  the  lord  of  their  hearts — the  banished  boy. 

Mute  are  the  minstrels  that  sang  of  him, 

The  harp  forgets  its  thrilling  tone : 
The  brightest  eyes  of  the  land  are  dim, 

For  the  pride  of  their  aching  sight  is  gone. 

The  sun  refused  to  lend  his  light, 

And  clouds  obscured  the  face  of  day ; 
The  tiger's  whelps  preyed  day  and  night, 

For  the  lion  of  the  forest  was  far  away. 


196      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

The  gallant,  graceful,  young  Chevalier, 
Whose  look  is  bonny  as  his  heart  is  gay; 

His  sword  in  battle  flashes  death  and  fear, 
While  he  hews  through  falling  foes  his  way. 

O'er  his  blushing  cheeks  his  blue  eyes  shine 
Like  dewdrops  glitt'ring  on  the  rose's  leaf; 

Mars  and  Cupid  all  in  him  combine, 

The  blooming  lover  and  the  godlike  chief. 

His  curling  locks  in  wavy  grace, 

Like  beams  on  youthful  Phoebus'  brow, 

Flit  wild  and  golden  o'er  his  speaking  face, 
And  down  his  ivory  shoulders  flow. 

Like  Engus  is  he  in  his  youthful  days, 

Or  Mac  Cein,  whose  deeds  all  Erin  knows, 

Mac  Dary's  chiefs,  of  deathless  praise, 
Who  hung  like  fate  on  their  routed  foes. 

Like  Connall  the  besieger,  pride  of  his  race, 

Or  Fergus,  son  of  a  glorious  sire, 
Or  blameless  Connor,  son  of  courteous  Nais, 

The  chief  of  the  Red  Branch — Lord  of  the  Lyre. 

The  cuckoo's  voice  is  not  heard  on  the  gale, 
Nor  the  cry  of  the  hounds  in  the  nutty  grove, 

Nor  the  hunter's  cheering  through  the  dewy  vale, 
Since  far — far  away  is  the  youth  of  our  love. 

The  name  of  my  darling  none  must  declare, 

Though  his  fame  be  like  sunshine  from  shore  to 
shore ; 

But,  oh,  may  Heaven — Heaven  hear  my  prayer  ! 
And  waft  the  hero  to  my  arms  once  more. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        197 

Chorus. — My  heart — it  danced  when  he  was  near, 

Ah  !  now  my  woe  is  the  young  Chevalier ; 
'Tis  a  pang  that  solace  ne'er  can  know, 
That  he  should  be  banished  by  a  rightless 
foe. 


198      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 


GEORGE  BARLEY 

(1785-1846) 

SONG 

SWEET  in  her  green  dell  the  flower  of  beauty 
slumbers, 
Lull'd  by  the  faint  breezes  sighing  through  her 

hair; 

Sleeps  she  and  hears  not  the  melancholy  numbers 
Breathed  to  my  sad  lute  'mid  the  lonely  air. 

Down  from  the  high  cliffs  the  rivulet  is  teeming 

To  wind  round  the  willow  banks  that  lure  him  from 
above ; 

O  that  in  tears,  from  my  rocky  prison,  streaming, 
I  too  could  glide  to  the  bower  of  my  love  ! 

Ah !    where    the  woodbines  with   sleepy  arms   have 

wound  her, 

Opes  she  her  eyelids  at  the  dream  of  my  lay, 
Listening,   like   the   dove,  while   the  fountains  echo 

round  her, 
To  her  lost  mate's  call  in  the  forest  far  away. 

Come    then,    my   bird  !     For   the    peace    thou   ever 

bearest, 

Still  Heaven's  messenger  of  comfort  to  me  — 
Come,  this  fond  bosom,  O  faithfullest  and  fairest, 
Bleeds  with  its  death-wound,  its  wound  of  love  for 
thee  ! 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LTR1CS        199 
SONG  OF  THE  SUMMER  WINDS 


u 


P  the  dale  and  down  the  bourne, 

O'er  the  meadow  swift  we  fly ;. 

Now  we  sing,  and  now  we  mourn, 

Now  we  whistle,  now  we  sigh. 


By  the  grassy-fringed  river, 

Through  the  murmuring  reeds  we  sweep ; 
'Mid  the  lily-leaves  we  quiver, 

To  their  very  hearts  we  creep. 

Now  the  maiden  rose  is  blushing 

At  the  frolic  things  we  say, 
While  aside  her  cheek  we're  rushing, 

Like  some  truant  bees  at  play. 

Through  the  blooming  graves  we  rustle, 

Kissing  every  bud  we  pass, — 
As  we  did  it  in  the  bustle, 

Scarcely  knowing  how  it  was. 

Down  the  glen,  across  the  mountain, 
O'er  the  yellow  heath  we  roam, 

Whirling  round  about  the  fountain, 
Till  its  little  breakers  foam. 

Bending  down  the  weeping  willows, 
While  our  vesper  hymn  we  sigh ; 

Then  unto  our  rosy  pillows 
On  our  weary  wings  we  hie. 


200      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

There  of  idlenesses  dreaming, 
Scarce  from  waking  we  refrain, 

Moments  long  as  ages  deeming 
Till  we're  at  our  play  again. 


TO  HELENE 
On  a  gift-ring  carelessly  lost. 

I  SEND  a  ring— a  little  band 
Of  emerald  and  ruby  stone, 
And  bade  it,  sparkling  on  thy  hand, 

Tell  thee  sweet  tales  of  one 
Whose  constant  memory 
Was  full  of  loveliness,  and  thee. 

A  shell  was  graven  on  its  gold 

'Twas  Cupid  'fin'd  without  his  wings  — 
To  Helene  once  it  would  have  told 

More  than  was  ever  told  by  rings : 
But  now  all's  past  and  gone 
Her  love  is  buried  with  that  stone. 

Thou  shall  not  see  the  tears  that  start 

From  eyes  by  thoughts  like  these  beguiled  ; 

Thou  shalt  not  know  the  beating  heart, 
Ever  a  victim  and  a  child  : 

Yet  Helene,  love,  believe 

The  heart  that  never  could  deceive. 

I'll  hear  thy  voice  of  melody 
In  the  sweet  whispers  of  the  air ; 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       201 

I'll  see  the  brightness  of  thine  eye 

In  the  blue  evening's  dewy  star ; 
In  crystal  streams  thy  purity ; 
And  look  on  heaven  to  look  on  thee. 


I 


TRUE  LOVELINESS 

T  is  not  beauty  I  demand, 

A  crystal  brow,  the  moon's  despair, 
Nor  the  snow's  daughter,  a  white  hand, 
Nor  mermaid's  yellow  pride  of  hair. 


Tell  me  not  of  your  starry  eyes, 
Your  lips  that  seem  on  roses  fed, 

Your  breasts,  where  Cupid  tumbling  lies, 
Nor  sleeps  for  kissing  of  his  bed. 

A  bloomy  pair  of  vermeil  cheeks, 
Like  Hebe's  in  her  ruddiest  hours, 

A  breath  that  softer  music  speaks 

Than  summer  winds  a-wooing  flowers, 

These  are  but  gauds.     Nay,  what  are  lips  ? 

Coral  beneath  the  ocean-stream, 
Whose  brink  when  your  adventurer  slips, 

Full  oft  he  perisheth  on  them. 

And  what  are  cheeks,  but  ensigns  oft 
That  wave  hot  youths  to  fields  of  blood  ? 

Did  Helen's  breast,  though  ne'er  so  soft, 
Do  Greece  or  Ilium  any  good  ? 


202      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

Eyes  can  with  baleful  ardour  burn ; 

Poison  can  breathe,  that  erst  perfumed ; 
There's  many  a  white  hand  holds  an  urn 

With  lovers'  hearts  to  dust  consumed. 

For  crystal  brows  there's  nought  within, 
They  are  but  empty  cells  for  pride; 

He  who  the  Siren's  hair  would  win 
Is  mostly  strangled  in  the  tide. 

Give  me,  instead  of  beauty's  bust, 
A  tender  heart,  a  loyal  mind, 

Which  with  temptation  I  would  trust, 
Yet  never  linked  with  error  find  — 

One  in  whose  gentle  bosom  I 

Could  pour  my  secret  heart  of  woes, 

Like  the  care-burthened  honey-fly 
That  hides  his  murmurs  in  the  rose. 

My  earthly  comforter  !  whose  love 

So  indefeasible  might  be, 
That  when  my  spirit  wonned  above, 

Hers  could  not  stay  for  sympathy. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       203 


FRANCIS  DAVIS 
(1745-1810) 

MY  KALLAGH  DHU  ASTHORE 

AGAIN  the  flowery  feet  of  June  have  tracked  our 
cottage  side ; 
And   o'er   the  waves   the  timid  moon  steals, 

smiling  like  a  bride : 
But  what  were  June  or  flowers  to  me,  or  waves,  or 

moon,  or  more, 

If  evening  came  and  brought  not  thee — my  Kallagh 
dhu  asthore ! 

Let  others    prize    their   lordly   lands,    and   sceptres 

gemmed  with  blood, 
More  dear  to  me  the  honest  hands  that  earn  my  babes 

their  food : 
And    little    reck   we    queens    or    kings  when  daily 

labour's  o'er ; 
And  by  the  evening  embers  sings  my  Kallagh  dhu 

asthore. 

And  when  he  sings,  his  every  song  is  sacred  freedom's 

own  : 
And  like  his  voice  his  arm  is  strong,  for  labour  nursed 

the  bone : 
And  then  his  step,  and  such  an  eye !    ah,   fancy  ! 

touch  no  more ; 
My  spirit  swims  in  holy  joy  o'er  Kallagh  dhu  asthore  ! 


204      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

His  voice  is  firm,  his  knee  is  proud  when  pomp's  im- 
perious tone 

Would  have  the  free-born  spirit  bowed,  that  right 
should  bow  alone ; 

For  well  does  Kallagh  know  his  due,  nor  ever  seeks 
he  more ; 

Would  heaven  mankind  were  all  alike  you,  my 
Kallagh  dhu  asthore ! 

And  Kallagh  is  an  Irishman  in  sinew,  soul  and  bone ; 
Not  e'en  the  veins  of  old  Slieveban  are  purer  than  his 

own : 
The  wing  of  foe  has  swept  our  skies,  the  foreign  foe 

our  shore, 
But  stain  or  change  thy  race  defies,  my  Kallagh  dhu 

asthore ! 

What  wonder,  then,  each  word  he  said  fell  o'er  my 

maiden  day, 
Like  breathing  o'er  the  cradle-bed  where  mothers  kiss 

and  pray; 
Though  dear  your  form,  your  cheek,  and  eye,  I  loved 

those  virtues  more, 
Whose  bloom  nor  ills  nor  years  destroy,  my  Kallagh 

dhu  asthore ! 

Oh,  could  this  heart,  this  throbbing  thing,  be  made  a 

regal  chair, 
I'd  rend  its  every  swelling  string,  to  seat  you,  Kallagh, 

there : 

And  oh,  if  honest  worth  the  kingly  bauble  bore, 
No  slave  wert  thou,  my  blood,  my  bone,  my  Kallagh 

dhu  asthore  ! 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        205 

NANNY 

OFOR  an  hour  when  the  day  is  breaking 
Down  by  the  shore  when  the  tide  is  making  ! 
Fair  as  a  white  cloud  thou,  love,  near  me, 
None  but  the  waves  and  thyself  to  hear  me  ! 
O  to  my  breast  how  these  arms  would  press  thee  ! 
Wildly  my  heart  in  its  joy  would  bless  thee  ! 
O  how  the  soul  thou  hast  won  would  woo  thee, 
Girl  of  the  snow  neck  !  closer  to  me  ! 


O  for  an  hour  as  the  day  advances, 

Out  where  the  breeze  on  the  broom-brush  dances, 

Watching  the  lark,  with  the  sun  ray  o'er  us, 

Winging  the  notes  of  his  heaven-taught  chorus  ! 

O  to  be  there  and  my  love  before  me, 

Soft  as  a  moonbeam  smiling  o'er  me  ! 

Thou  wouldst  but  love,  and  I  would  woo  thee, 

Girl  of  the  dark  eye !  closer  to  me. 

O  for  an  hour  where  the  sun  first  found  us, 
Out  in  the  eve  with  its  red  sheets  round  us, 
Brushing  the  dew  from  the  gale's  soft  winglets, 
Pearly  and  sweet,  with  thy  long,  dark  ringlets  ! 
O  to  be  there  on  the  sward  beside  thee, 
Telling  my  tale  though  I  know  you'd  chide  me  ! 
Sweet  were  thy  voice  though  it  should  undo  me, 
Girl  of  the  dark  locks  !  closer  to  me. 

O  for  an  hour  by  night  or  by  day,  love, 
Just  as  the  heavens  and  thou  might  say,  love  ! 
Far  from  the  stare  of  the  cold-eyed  many, 
Bound  in  the  breath  of  my  dove-souled  Nanny  ! 


206      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

O  for  the  pure  chains  that  have  bound  me, 
Warm  from  thy  red  lips  circling  round  me  ! 
O  in  my  soul,  as  the  light  above  me, 
Queen  of  the  pure  hearts  !  do  I  love  thee ! 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       207 


THOMAS  OSBORNE  DAVIS 

(1814-1845) 

A  CHRISTMAS  SCENE,  OR  LOVE  IN  THE 
COUNTRY 


i 

THE  hill  blast  comes  howling  through  leaf-rifted 
trees 
That  late   were  as  harp-strings  to  each  gentle 

breeze ; 

The  strangers  and  cousins  and  every  one  flown, 
While  we  sit  happy- hearted — together  alone. 


Some  are  off  to  the  mountain,  and  some  to  the  fair, 
The  snow  is  on  their  cheek,  on  mine  your  black  hair ; 
Papa  with  his  farming  is  busy  to-day, 
And  mamma's  toe  good-natured  to  ramble  this  way. 


in 

« 

The  girls  are  gone — are  they  not  ?  into  town, 
To  fetch  bows  and  bonnets,  perchance  a  beau,  down ; 
Ah!  tell  them,  dear  Kate,  'tis  not  fair  to  coquette  — 
Though  you,  you  bold  lassie,  are  fond  of  it  yet ! 


208      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURT  OF 


IV 


You're  not — do  you  say?     Just  remember  last  night, 
You  gave  Harry  a  rose,  and  you  dubbed  him  your 

knight ; 

Poor  lad  !  if  he  loved  you — but  no,  darling  !  no, 
You're  too  thoughtful  and  good  to  fret  any  one  so. 


The  painters  are  raving  of  light  and  of  shade, 
And  Harry,  the  poet,  of  lake,  and  of  glade ; 
While  the  light  of  your  eye  and  your  soft  wavy  form 
Suit  a  proser  like  me,  by  the  hearth  bright  and  warm. 

VI 

The  snow  on  those  hills  is  uncommonly  grand, 

But  you  know,  Kate,  it's  not  half  so  white  as  your 

hand, 

And  say  what  you  will  of  the  gray  Christmas  sky, 
Still  I  slightly  prefer  my  dark  girl's  gray  eye. 

VII 

Be  quiet,  and  sing  me  "The  Bonny  Cuckoo," 
For  it  bids  us  the  summer  and  winter  love  through ; 
And  then  I'll  read  out  an  old  ballad  that  shows 
How  Tyranny  perished,  and  Liberty  rose. 

VIII 

My  Kate !     I'm  so  happy  your  voice  whispers  soft, 
And  your  cheek  flushed  wilder  from  kissing  so  oft, 
For  town  or  for  country,  for  mountains  or  farms, 
What  care  I?     My  darling's  entwined  in  my  arms. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        209 
A  NATION  ONCE  AGAIN 

WHEN  boyhood's  fire  was  in  my  blood, 
1  read  of  ancient  freemen, 
For  Greece  and  Rome  who  bravely  stood, 
Three  Hundred  men  and  Three  men.1 
And  then  I  prayed  I  yet  might  see 

Our  fetters  rent  in  twain, 
And,  Ireland,  long  a  province,  be 
A  Nation  once  again. 


And,  from  that  time,  through  wildest  woe 

That  hope  has  shone,  a  far  light ; 
Nor  could  love's  brightest  summer  glow 

Outshine  that  solemn  starlight : 
It  seemed  to  watch  above  my  head 

In  forum,  field,  and  fane; 
Its  angel  voice  sang  round  my  bed, 

"A  Nation  once  again." 


It  whispered,  too,  that  "freedom's  ark 

And  service  high  and  holy, 
Would  be  profaned  by  feelings  dark, 

And  passions  vain  or  lowly : 
For  freedom  comes  from  God's  right  hand, 

And  needs  a  godly  train ; 
And  righteous  men  must  make  our  land 

A  Nation  once  again." 


1  The  Three  Hundred  Greeks  who  died  at  Thermopylae,  and 
the  Three  Romans  who  kept  the  Sublician  Bridge. — Davis. 


210      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURT  OF 

So,  as  I  grew  from  boy  to  man, 

I  bent  me  to  that  bidding  — 
My  spirit  of  each  selfish  plan 

And  cruel  passion  ridding ; 
For,  thus  I  hoped  some  day  to  aid  — 

Oh  I  can  such  hope  be  vain  ? 
When  my  dear  country  shall  be  made 

A  Nation  -once  again. 


A  PLEA  FOR  LOVE 

THE  summer  brook  flows  in  the  bed, 
The  winter  torrent  tore  asunder  ; 
The  skylark's  gentle  wings  are  spread 
Where  walk  the  lightning  and  the  thunder ; 
And  thus  you'll  find  the  sternest  soul 
The  gayest  tenderness  concealing, 
And  minds  that  seem  to  mock  control, 
Are  ordered  by  some  fairy  feeling. 


Then,  maiden  !  start  not  from  the  hand 

That's  hardened  by  the  swaying  sabre  — 
The  pulse  beneath  may  be  as  bland 

As  evening  after  day  of  labour : 
And,  maiden  !     Start  not  from  the  brow 

That  thought  has  knit,  and  passion  darkened 
In  twilight  hours,  'neath  forest  bough, 

The  tenderest  tales  are  often  hearkened. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        211 

FONTENOY l 

THRICE  at  the  huts  of  Fontenoy  the  English  col- 
umn failed, 
And  twice  the  lines  of  Saint  Antoine  the  Dutch 

in  vain  assailed ; 
For  town  and  slope  were  filled  with  fort  and  flanking 

battery, 
And  well  they  swept  the  English  ranks  and  Dutch 

auxiliary. 

As  vainly,  through  De  Barri's  wood,  the  British  sol- 
diers burst, 
The  French  artillery  drove  them  back,  diminished  and 

dispersed. 
The  bloody  Duke  of  Cumberland  beheld  with  anxious 

eye, 
And  ordered  up  his  last  reserve,  his  latest  chance  to 

try. 
On   Fontenoy,   on  Fontenoy,    how  fast  his  generals 

ride ! 
And  mustering  come  his  chosen  troops,  like  clouds  at 

eventide. 


Six  thousand  English  veterans  in  stately  column  tread, 
Their  cannon  blaze  in  front  and  flank,  Lord  Hay  is  at 

their  head ; 
Steady  they  step  a-down  the  slope — steady  they  climb 

the  hill; 

irThe  battle  of  Fontenoy,  fought  in  Flanders  in  1745  between 
the  French  and  the  Allies — English,  Dutch,  and  Austrians — in 
which  the  Allies  were  worsted.  The  Irish  Brigade  fought  by 
the  side  of  the  French,  and  won  great  renown  by  their  splendid 
conduct  in  the  field. 


212      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

Steady  they  load — steady  they  fire,  moving  right  on- 
ward still, 

Betwixt  the  wood  and  Fontenoy,  as  through  a  furnace 
blast, 

Through  rampart,  trench,  and  palisade,  and  bullets- 
showering  fast ; 

And  on  the  open  plain  above  they  rose,  and  kept  their 
course, 

With  ready  fire  and  grim  resolve,  that  mocked  at  hos- 
tile force : 

Past   Fontenoy,   past  Fontenoy,   while  thinner  grow 
their  ranks  — 

They  break,  as  broke  the  Zuyder  Zee  through  Hol- 
land's ocean  banks. 


More  idly  than  the  summer  flies,  French  tirailleurs 

rush  round ; 
As  stubble  to  the  lava  tide,  French  squadrons  strew 

the  ground ; 
Bomb-shell,  and  grape,  and  round-shot  tore,  still  on 

they  marched  and  fired  — 

Fast,  from  each  volley,  grenadier  and  voltigeur  retired. 
"  Push  on  my  household  cavalry  !  "  King  Louis  madly 

cried  : 

To  death  they  rush,  but  rude  their  shock — not  un- 
avenged they  died. 
On  through  the  camp  the  column  trod — King  Louis 

turns  his  rein : 
"Not   yet,  my   liege,"  Saxe  interposed,   "the  Irish 

troops  remain ;  " 

And  Fontenoy,  famed  Fontenoy,  had  been  a  Waterloo, 
Were  not  these  exiles  ready  then,  fresh,  vehement, 

and  true. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LTR1CS       213 

"Lord  Clare,"  he  said,  "you  have  your  wish,  there 

are  your  Saxon  foes  !  ' ' 

The  marshal  almost  smiles  to  see,  so  furiously  he  goes  ! 
How  fierce  the  look  these  exiles  wear,  who' re  wont  to 

be  so  gay, 
The  treasured  wrongs  of  fifty  years  are  in  their  hearts 

to-day  — 
The  treaty  broken,  ere  the  ink  wherewith  'twas  writ 

could  dry, 
Their  plundered  homes,   their  ruined  shrines,   their 

women's  parting  cry, 

Their  priesthood  hunted  down  like  wolves,  their  coun- 
try overthrown, — 
Each  looks  as  if  revenge  for  all  were  staked  on  him 

alone. 

On  Fontenoy,  on  Fontenoy,  nor  ever  yet  elsewhere, 
Rushed  on  to  fight  a  nobler  band  than  these  proud 

exiles  were. 


O'Brien's  voice  is  hoarse  with  joy,  as,  halting,  he  com- 
mands, 

"Fix  bay'nets" — "charge," — Like  mountain  storm, 
rush  on  these  fiery  bands  ! 

Thin  is  the  English  column  now,  and  faint  their  vol- 
ieys  grow, 

Yet,  must'ring  all  the  strength  they  have,  they  make  a 
gallant  show. 

They  dress  their  ranks  upon  the  hill  to  face  that  bat- 
tle-wind— 

Their  bayonets  the  breakers'  foam ;  like  rocks,  the 
men  behind  I 

One  volley  crashes  from  their  -line,  when,  through  the 
surging  smoke, 


214      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURT  OF 

With  empty  guns  clutched  in  their  hands,  the  head- 
long Irish  broke. 

On  Fontenoy,  on  Fontenoy,  hark  to  that  fierce  huzza  ! 

"Revenge!  remember  Limerick!  dash  down  the 
Sacsanach  1 ' ' 

Like  lions  leaping  at  a  fold,  when  mad  with  hunger's 

pang, 
Right  up   against  the  English  line  the   Irish  exiles 

sprang : 
Bright  was  their  steel,  'tis  bloody  now,  their  guns  are 

filled  with  gore; 

Through  shattered  ranks,  and  severed  files,  and  tram- 
pled flags  they  tore ; 
The  English  strove  with  desperate  strength,  paused, 

rallied,  staggered,  fled  — 
The  green  hillside  is  matted  close  with  dying  and  with 

dead. 
Across  the  plain  and  far  away  passed  on  that  hideous 

wrack, 

While  cavalier  and  fantassin  dash  in  upon  their  track. 
On  Fontenoy,  on  Fontenoy,  like  eagles  in  the  sun, 
With  bloody  plumes  the  Irish  stand — the  field  is  fought 

and  won  ! 


I 


MAIRE  BHAN  A  STOR 

N  a  valley  far  away 

With  my  Maire  bhan  a  stor,1 
Short  would  be  the  summer  day, 
Ever  loving  more  and  more. 


1  Maire  bhan  a  stor,  Fair  Mary  my  treasure, — pronounced 
Maurya  vaun  astore. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       215 

Winter  days  would  all  grow  long, 

With  the  light  her  heart  would  pour 
With  her  kisses  and  her  song, 
And  her  loving  maith  go  leor.1 
Fond  is  Maire  bhan  a  star, 
Fair  is  Maire  bhan  a  star, 
Sweet  as  ripple  on  the  shore 
Sings  my  Maire  bhan  a  stor. 

O  her  sire  is  very  proud, 

And  her  mother  cold  as  stone, 
But  her  brother  bravely  vowed 

She  should  be  my  bride  alone ; 
For  he  knew  I  loved  her  well, 

And  he  knew  she  loved  me  too. 
So  he  sought  their  pride  to  quell, 
But  'twas  all  in  vain  to  sue. 

True  is  Maire  bhan  a  stor, 
Tried  is  Maire  bhan  a  stor, 
Had  I  wings  I'd  never  soar 
From  my  Maire  bhan  a  stor. 

There  are  lands  where  manly  toil 

Surely  reaps  the  crop  it  sows, 
Glorious  woods  and  teeming  soil, 

Where  the  broad  Missouri  flows ; 
Through  the  trees  the  smoke  shall  rise 
From  our  hearth  with  maith  go  leor, 
There  shall  shine  the  happy  eyes 
Of  my  Maire  bhan  a  stor. 

Mild  is  Maire  bhan  a  stor, 
Mine  is  Maire  bhan  a  stor, 
Saints  will  watch  about  the  door 
Of  my  Maire  bhan  a  stor. 

1  Maith  go  leor,  in  abundance. 


216      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

MY  GRAVE 

SHALL  they  bury  me  in  the  deep, 
Where  wind-forgetting  waters  sleep  ? 
Shall  they  dig  a  grave  for  me, 
Under  the  greenwood  tree  ? 
Or  on  the  wild  heath, 
Where  the  wilder  breath 
Of  the  storm  doth  blow  ? 
Oh,  no  !  oh,  no  ! 

Shall  they  bury  me  in  the  palace  tombs, 

Or  under  the  shade  of  cathedral  domes  ? 

Sweet  'twere  to  lie  on  Italy's  shore ; 

Yet  not  there — nor  in  Greece,  though  I  love  it  more. 

In  the  wolf  or  the  vulture  my  grave  shall  I  find  ? 

Shall  my  ashes  career  on  the  world-seeing  wind? 

Shall  they  fling  my  corpse  in  the  battle  mound, 

Where  cofifinless  thousands  lie  under  the  ground  ? 

Just  as  they  fall  they  are  buried  so  — 

Oh,  no  !  oh,  no  ! 

No  !  on  an  Irish  green  hillside, 
On  an  opening  lawn — but  not  too  wide ; 
For  I  love  the  drip  of  the  wetted  trees  — 
I  love  not  the  gales,  but  a  gentle  breeze, 
To  freshen  the  turf; — put  no  tombstone  there, 
But  green  sods  decked  with  daisies  fair ; 
Nor  sods  too  deep,  but  so  that  the  dew 
The  matted  grass-roots  may  trickle  through. 
Be  my  epitaph  writ  on  my  country's  mind  : 
"  He  served  his  country,  and  loved  his  kind." 

Oh  !  'twere  merry  unto  the  grave  to  go, 
If  one  were  sure  to  be  buried  so. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LTRICS        217 

MY  LAND 

SHE  is  a  rich  and  rare  land ; 
O  she's  a  fresh  and  fair  land ; 
She  is  a  dear  and  rare  land  — 
This  native  land  of  mine. 

No  men  than  hers  are  braver  — 
Her  women's  hearts  ne'er  waver ; 
I'd  freely  die  to  save  her, 

And  think  my  lot  divine. 

She's  not  a  dull  or  cold  land  ; 
No  !  she's  a  warm  and  bold  land ; 
O  she's  a  true  and  old  land  — 
This  native  land  of  mine. 

Could  beauty  ever  guard  her, 
And  virtue  still  reward  her, 
No  foe  would  cross  her  border  — 
No  friend  within  it  pine  ! 

O  she's  a  fresh  and  fair  land, 
O  she's  a  true  and  rare  land  ! 
Yes,  she's  a  rare  and  fair  land  — 
This  native  land  of  mine. 


OH!  THE  MARRIAGE 

OH  !  the  marriage,  the  marriage, 
With  love  and  mo  bhuachaiir  for  me, 
The  ladies  that  ride  in  a  carriage 
Might  envy  my  marriage  to  me ; 

1  Mo  bhuachaill,  ma  bouchal,  my  boy. 


218      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

For  Eoghan  is  straight  as  a  tower, 
And  tender  and  loving  and  true, 

He  told  me  more  love  in  an  hour 

Than  the  squires  of  the  county  could  do. 
Then,  Oh  !  the  marriage,  etc. 

His  hair  is  a  shower  of  soft  gold, 

His  eye  is  as  clear  as  the  day, 
His  conscience  and  vote  were  unsold 

When  others  were  carried  away; 
His  word  is  as  good  as  an  oath, 

And  freely  'twas  given  to  me ; 
Oh  !  sure  'twill  be  happy  for  both 

The  day  of  our  marriage  to  see. 

Then,  Oh  !  the  marriage,  etc. 

His  kinsmen  are  honest  and  kind, 

The  neighbors  think  much  of  his  skill, 
And  Eoghan's  the  lad  to  my  mind, 

Though  he  owns  neither  castle  nor  mill. 
But  he  has  a  tilloch  of  land, 

A  horse,  and  a  stocking  of  coin, 
A  foot  for  the  dance,  and  a  hand 

In  the  cause  of  his  country  to  join. 

Then,  Oh  !  the  marriage,  etc. 

We  meet  in  the  market  and  fair  — 

We  meet  in  the  morning  and  night  — 
He  sits  on  the  half  of  my  chair, 

And  my  people  are  wild  with  delight. 
Yet  I  long  through  the  winter  to  skim, 

Though  Eoghan  longs  more  I  can  see, 
When  I  will  be  married  to  him, 

And  he  will  be  married  to  me. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LTRICS       219 

Then,  Oh  !  the  marriage,  the  marriage, 
With  love  and  mo  bhuachaill  for  me, 

The  ladies  that  ride  in  a  carriage 
Might  envy  my  marriage  to  me. 


THE  GIRL  OF  DUNBWY 

1r  I  "MS    pretty  to  see  the  girl  of  Dunbwy 
Stepping  the  mountain  statelily  — 
Though  ragged  her  gown  and  naked  her  feet, 

No  lady  in  Ireland  to  match  her  is  meet. 

Poor  is  her  diet,  and  hardly  she  lies  — 
Yet  a  monarch  might  kneel  for  a  glance  of  her  eyes; 
The  child  of  a  peasant — yet  England's  proud  Queen 
Has  less  rank  in  her  heart  and  less  grace  in  her  mien. 

Her  brow  'neath  her  raven  hair  gleams,  just  as  if 
A  breaker  spread  white  'neath  a  shadowy  cliff  — 
And  love  and  devotion  and  energy  speak 
From   her   beauty-proud   eye   and    her   passion-pale 
cheek. 

But,  pale  as  her  cheek  is,  there's  fruit  on  her  lip, 
And  her  teeth  flash  as  white  as  the  crescent  moon's 

tip, 
And  her  form  and  her  step,  like  the  red-deer's,  go 

past  — 
As  lightsome,  as  lovely,  as  haughty,  as  fast. 

I  saw  her  but  once,  and  I  looked  in  her  eye, 
And  she  knew  that  I  worshiped  in  passing  her  by. 


220      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

The  saint  of  the  wayside — she  granted  my  prayer, 
Though  we  spoke  not  a  word ;  for  her  mother  was 
there. 

I  never  can  think  upon  Bantry's  bright  hills, 
But  her  image  starts  up,  and  my  longing  eye  fills ; 
And  I  whisper  her  softly  :   "  Again,  love,  we'll  meet ! 
And  I'll  lie  in  your  bosom,  and  live  at  your  feet." 


THE  WELCOME 

COME  in  the  evening,  or  come  in  the  morning, 
Come  when  you're  looked  for,  or  come  with- 
out warning, 

Kisses  and  welcome  you'll  find  here  before  you, 
And  the  oftener  you  come  here  the  more  I'll  adore 

you. 

Light  is  my  heart  since  the  day  we  were  plighted, 
Red  is  my  cheek  that  they  told  me  was  blighted, 
The  green  of  the  trees  looks  far  greener  than  ever, 
And  the  linnets  are  singing,  "True  lovers,  don't 
sever !  " 

I'll  pull  you  sweet  flowers,  to  wear,  if  you  choose 

them: 

Or,  after  you've  kissed  them,  they'll  lie  on  my  bosom. 
I'll  fetch  from  the  mountain  its  breeze  to  inspire  you ; 
I'll  fetch  from  my  fancy  a  tale  that  won't  tire  you. 
O  your  step's  like  the  rain  to  the  summer-vexed 

farmer, 

Or  saber  and  shield  to  a  knight  without  armor ; 
I'll  sing  you  sweet  songs  till  the  stars  rise  above  me, 
Then,  wandering,  I'll  wish  you,  in  silence,  to  love 
me. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       221 

We'll  look  through  the  trees  at  the  cliff  and  the  eyrie; 
We'll  tread  round  the  rath  on  the  track  of  the  fairy ; 
We'll  look  on  the  stars,  and  we'll  list  to  the  river, 
Till  you'll  ask  of  your  darling  what  gift  you  can  give 

her. 
O    she'll   whisper   you,    "  Love  as  unchangeably 

beaming, 

And  trust,  when  in  secret,  most  tunefully  stream- 
ing, 

Till  the  starlight  of  heaven  above  us  shall  quiver 
As  our  souls  flow  in  one  down  eternity's  river." 

So  come  in  the  evening,  or  come  in  the  morning, 
Come  when  you're  looked  for,  or  come  without  warn- 
ing, 

Kisses  and  welcome  you'll  find  here  before  you, 
And  the  oftener  you  come  here  the  more  I'll  adore 

you. 

Light  is  my  heart  since  the  day  we  were  plighted, 
Red  is  my  cheek  that  they  told  me  was  blighted, 
The  green  of  the  trees  looks  far  greener  than  ever, 
And  the  linnets  are  singing,  "  True  lovers,  don't 
sever ! " 

THE  WEST'S  ASLEEP 

WHEN  all  beside  a  vigil  keep, 
The  West's  asleep,  the  West's  asleep. 
Alas  !  and  well  may  Erin  weep, 
When  Connaught  lies  in  slumber  deep. 
There  lake  and  plain  smile  fair  and  free, 
'Mid  rocks — their  guardian  chivalry. 
Sing  !  oh  !  let  me  learn  liberty 
From  crashing  wind  and  lashing  sea. 


222      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

That  chain  less  wave  and  lovely  land 
Freedom  and  Nationhood  demand  ; 
Be  sure  the  great  God  never  planned 
For  slumbering  slaves  a  home  so  grand. 
And  long  a  brave  and  haughty  race 
Honored  and  sentineled  the  place  — 
Sing,  oh  !  not  even  their  sons'  disgrace 
Can  quite  destroy  their  glory's  trace. 

For  often,  in  O'Connor's  van, 
To  triumph  dashed  each  Connaught  clan, 
And  fleet  as  deer  the  Normans  ran 
Through  Curlieu's  Pass  and  Ardrahan, 
And  later  times  saw  deeds  as  brave  j 
And  glory  guards  Clanricarde's  grave  — 
Sing,  oh  !  they  died  their  land  to  save, 
At  Aughrim's  slopes  and  Shannon's  wave. 

And  if,  when  all  a  vigil  keep, 
The  West's  asleep,  the  West's  asleep  — 
Alas  !  and  well  may  Erin  weep, 
That  Connaught  lies  in  slumber  deep. 
But  hark  !  some  voice  like  thunder  spake : 
"  The  West's  awake  !  the  West's  awake  !  " 
Sing,  oh  !  hurrah  !  let  England  quake; 
We'll  watch  till  death  for  Erin's  sake. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        223 


ARTHUR  DAWSON 

(1700-1775) 

BUMPERS,  SQUIRE  JONES 


Y 


"E  good  fellows  all, 
Who    love   to   be   told   where  good 

claret's  in  store, 
Attend  to  the  call 
Of  one  who's  ne'er  frighted, 
But  greatly  delighted 
With  six  bottles  more. 

Be  sure  you  don't  pass 
The  good  house,  Moneyglass, 
Which  the  jolly  red  god  so  peculiarly  owns, 
'Twill  well  suit  your  humor — 
For,  pray,  what  would  you  more, 
Than  mirth  with  good   claret,  and  bumpers,  Squire 
Jones  ? 


Ye  lovers  who  pine 

For  lasses  that  oft  prove  as  cruel  as  fair, 
Who  whimper  and  whine 
For  lilies  and  roses, 
With  eyes,  lips,  and  noses, 

Or  tip  of  an  ear  ! 

Come  hither,  I'll  show  ye 
How  Phillis  and  Chloe 


224      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURr  OF 

No  more  shall  occasion  such  sighs  and  such  groans ; 

For  what  mortal's  so  stupid 

As  not  to  quit  Cupid, 

When    called  to  good  claret,  and  bumpers,   Squire 
Jones  ? 


Ye  poets  who  write, 
And  brag  of  your  drinking  famed  Helicon's  brook, — 

Though  all  you  get  by  it 

Is  a  dinner  ofttimes, 

In  reward  for  your  rhymes, 
With  Humphry  the  Duke, — 

Learn  Bacchus  to  follow, 

And  quit  your  Apollo, 
Forsake  all  the  Muses,  those  senseless  old  crones : 

Our  jingling  of  glasses 

Your  rhyming  surpasses 

When  crowned  with  good  claret,  and  bumpers,  Squire 
Jones. 


Ye  soldiers  so  stout, 
With  plenty  of  oaths,  though  no  plenty  of  coin, 

Who  make  such  a  rout 

Of  all  your  commanders, 

Who  served  us  in  Flanders, 
And  eke  at  the  Boyne, — 

Come  leave  off  your  rattling 

Of  sieging  and  battling, 
And  know  you'd  much  better  to  sleep  in  whole  bones ; 

Were  you  sent  to  Gibraltar, 

Your  notes  you'd  soon  alter, 
And  wish  for  good  claret,  and  bumpers,  Squire  Jones. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       225 

Ye  clergy  so  wise, 
Who  mysteries  profound  can  demonstrate  so  clear, 

How  worthy  to  rise  ! 

You  preach  once  a  week, 

But  your  tithes  never  seek 
Above  once  in  a  year  ! 

Come  here  without  failing, 

And  leave  off  your  railing 
'Gainst  bishops  providing  for  dull  stupid  drones ; 

Says  the  text  so  divine, 

"  What  is  life  without  wine?  " 
Then  away  with  the  claret, — a  bumper,  Squire  Jones  ! 

Ye  lawyers  so  just, 
Be  the  cause  what  it  will,  who  so  learnedly  plead, 

How  worthy  of  trust ! 

You  know  black  from  white, 

You  prefer  wrong  to  right, 
As  you  chance  to  be  fee'd  :  — 

Leave  musty  reports 

And  forsake  the  king's  courts, 
Where  dulness  and  discord  have  set  up  their  thrones ; 

Burn  Salkeld  and  Ventris, l 

And  all  your  damned  entries, 
And  away  with  the  claret, — a  bumper,  Squire  Jones  ! 

Ye  physical  tribe 
Whose  knowledge  consists  in  hard  words  and  grimace, 

Whene'er  you  prescribe, 

Have  at  your  devotion, 

Pills,  bolus,  or  potion, 
Be  what  will  the  case ; 

1  Law  commentators  of  the  time. 


226      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 

Pray  where  is  the  need  , 

To  purge,  blister  and  bleed  ? 
When,  ailing  yourselves,  the  whole  faculty  owns 

That  the  forms  of  old  Galen 

Are  not  so  prevailing 

As   mirth  with   good  claret, — and  bumpers,   Squire 
Jones ! 

Ye  fox-hunters  eke, 
That  follow  the  call  of  the  horn  and  the  hound, 

Who  your  ladies  forsake 

Before  they're  awake, 

To  beat  up  the  brake 
Where  the  vermin  is  found  :  — 

Leave  Piper  and  Blueman, 

Shrill  Duchess  and  Trueman, — 
No  music  is  found  in  such  dissonant  tones  ! 

Would  you  ravish  your  ears 

With  the  songs  of  the  spheres, 
Hark  away  to  the  claret, — a  bumper,  Squire  Jones  ! 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        227 


SIR  AUBREY  DE  VERE 

(1788-1846) 

LIBERTY  OF  THE  PRESS 

SOME  laws  there  are  too  sacred  for  the  hand 
Of  man  to  approach  :  recorded  in  the  blood 
Of  patriots,  before  which,  as  the  Rood 
Of  faith,  devotional  we  take  our  stand  ; 
Time-hallowed  laws  !     Magnificently  planned 
When  Freedom  was  the  nurse  of  public  good, 
And  Power  paternal :  laws  that  have  withstood 
All  storms,  unshaken  bulwarks  of  the  land  ! 
Free  will,  frank  speech,  an  undissembling  mind, 
Without  which  Freedom  dies  and  laws  are  vain, 

On  such  we  found  our  rights,  to  such  we  cling 
In  them  shall  power  his  surest  safeguard  find. 
Tread  them  not  down  in  passion  or  disdain  ; 
Make  a  man  a  reptile,  he  will  turn  and  sting. 


ALL  holy  influence  dwells  within 
The  breast  of  childhood :  instincts  fresh  from 

God 

Inspire  it,  ere  the  heart  beneath  the  rod 
Of  grief  hath  bled,  or  caught  the  plague  of  sin. 
How  mighty  was  that  fervor  which  could  win 
Its  way  to  infant  souls  !  and  was  the  sod 
Of  Palestine  by  infant  Croises  trod  ? 


228      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURT  OF 

Like  Joseph  went  they  forth,  or  Benjamin, 

In  all  their  touching  beauty  to  redeem  ? 

And  did  their  soft  lips  kiss  the  Sepulchre? 

Alas  !  the  lovely  pageant  as  a  dream 

Faded  !     They  sank  not  through  ignoble  fear, 

They  felt  not  Moslem  steel.     By  mountain,  stream, 

In  sands,  in  fens,  they  died — no  mother  near  ! 


THE  SHANNON 

RIVER  of  billows,  to  whose  mighty  heart 
The  tide-wave  rushes  of  the  Atlantic  Sea ; 
River  of  quiet  depths,  by  cultured  lea, 
Romantic  wood  or  city's  crowded  mart ; 
River  of  old  poetic  founts,  which  start 

From  their  lone  mountain-cradles,  wild  and  free, 
Nursed  with    the   fawns,  lulled  by  the  woodlark's 

glee, 

And  cushat's  hymeneal  song  apart; 
River  of  chieftains,  whose  baronial  halls, 

Like  veteran  warders,  watch  each  wave-worn  steep, 
Portumna's  towers,  Bunratty's  royal  walls, 

Carrick's  stern  rock,  the  Geraldine's  gray  keep  — 
River  of  dark  mementoes  !   must  I  close 
My  lips  with  Limerick's  wrong,  with  Aughrim's  woes? 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       223 


AUBREY  T.  DE  VERE 

(1814-1902) 

DIRGE  OF  RORY  O'MORE 

A.  D.    1642 

UP  the  sea-saddened  valley,  at  evening's  decline, 
A    heifer    walks    lowing — "the    Silk    of    the 
Kine;" 

From  the  deep  to  the  mountains  she  roams,  and  again 
From  the  mountain's  green  urn  to  the  purple-rimmed 
main. 

What  seek'st  thou,  sad  mother?     Thine  own  is  not 

thine ! 
He  dropped  from  the  headland — he  sank  in  the 

brine ! 
'Twas  a  dream  !  but  in  dreams  at  thy  foot  did  he 

follow 
Through  the  meadow-sweet  on  by  the  marish  and 

mallow ! 

Was  he  thine  ?     Have  they  slain  him  ?     Thou  seek'st 

him,  not  knowing 
Thyself,  too,  art   theirs — thy  sweet   breath    and   sad 

lowing  ! 

Thy  gold  horn  is  theirs,  thy  dark  eye  and  thy  silk, 
And  that  which  torments  thee,  thy  milk,  is  their  milk  ! 


230      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

'Twas  no  dream,  Mother  Land  !       'Twas  no  dream, 

Innisfail  ! 
Hope  dreams,  but  grief  dreams  not — the  grief  of  the 

Gael! 

From  Leix  and  Ikerrin  to  Donegal's  shore 
Rolls  the  dirge  of  thy  last  and  thy  bravest — O'More  ! 


FLOWERS  I  WOULD  BRING 

FLOWERS  I  would  bring  if  flowers  could  make 
thee  fairer, 

And  music,  if  the  Muse  were  dear  to  thee  ; 
(For  loving  these  would  make  thee  love  the  bearer) 
But  the  sweetest  songs  forget  their  melody, 
And  loveliest  flowers  would  but  conceal  the  wearer: — 
A  rose  I  marked,  and  might  have  plucked ;  but  she 
Blushed  as  she  bent ;  imploring  me  to  spare  her, 
Nor  spoil  her  beauty  by  such  rivalry. 
Alas  !  and  with  what  gifts  shall  I  pursue  thee, 
What  offerings  bring,  what  treasures  lay  before  thee ; 
When  earth  with  all  her  floral  train  doth  woo  thee, 
And  all  old  poets  and  old  songs  adore  thee ; 
And  love  to  thee  is  naught ;  from  passionate  mood 
Secured  by  joy's  complacent  plenitude  ! 


SAD  IS  OUR  YOUTH,  FOR  IT  IS  EVER  GOING 

SAD  is  our  youth,  for  it  is  ever  going, 
Crumbling  away,  beneath  our  very  feet ; 
Sad  is  our  life,  for  onward  it  is  flowing 
In  current  unperceived,  because  so  fleet; 
Sad  are  our  hopes,  for  they  were  sweet  in  sowing, — 
But  tares,  self-sown,  have  overtopped  the  wheat; 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        231 

Sad  are  our  joys,  for  they  were  sweet  in  blowing, — 
And  still,  O  still  their  dying  breath  is  sweet ; 
And  sweet  is  youth,  although  it  hath  bereft  us 
Of  that  which  made  our  childhood  sweeter  still ; 
And  sweet  is  middle  life,  for  it  hath  left  us 
A  nearer  good  to  cure  an  older  ill ; 
And  sweet  are  all  things,  when  we  learn  to  prize  them, 
Not  for  their  sake,  but  His  who  grants  them  or  denies 
them  ! 


SONG 

SEEK  not  the  tree  of  silkiest  bark 
And  balmiest  bud, 
To  carve  her  name  while  yet  'tis  dark 

Upon  the  wood  ! 
The  world  is  full  of  noble  tasks 
And  wreaths  hard  won  : 

Each  work  demands  strong  hearts,  strong  hands, 
Till  day  is  done. 

Sing  not  that  violet-veined  skin, 
That  cheek's  pale  roses, 
The  lily  of  that  form  wherein 

Her  soul  reposes  ! 
Forth  to  the  fight,  true  man  !  true  knight  \ 

The  clash  of  arms 

Shall  more  prevail  than  whispered  tale, 
To  win  her  charms. 

The  warrior  for  the  True,  the  Right, 

Fights  in  Love's  name  ; 
The  love  that  lures  thee  from  that  fight 

Lures  thee  to  shame  : 


232      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

That  love  which  lifts  the  heart,  yet  leaves 

The  spirit  free, — 
That  love,  or  none,  is  fit  for  one 
Man-shaped  like  thee. 

SORROW 

COUNT  each  affliction,  whether  light  or  grave, 
God's  messenger  sent  down  to  thee;  do  thou 
With  courtesy  receive  him  ;  rise  and  bow; 
And,  ere  his  shadow  pass  thy  threshold,  crave 
Permission  first  his  heavenly  feet  to  lave ; 
Then  lay  before  him  all  thou  hast :   allow 
No  cloud  of  passion  to  usurp  thy  brow, 
Or  mar  thy  hospitality  :   no  wave ; 
Or  mortal  tumult  to  obliterate 
The  soul's  marmoreal  calmness ;  grief  should  be  — 

Like  joy — majestic,  equable,  sedate, 
Confirming,  cleansing,  raising,  making  free; 
Strong  to  consume  small  troubles ;  to  commend 
Great  thoughts,  grave  thoughts,  thoughts  lasting  to  the 
end. 


T 


THE  LITTLE  BLACK  ROSE 

HE  Ljttle  Black  Rose l  shall  be  red  at  last ; 

What  made  it  black  but  the  March  wind  dry, 
And  the  tear  of  the  widow  that  fell  on  it  fast  ? 
It  shall  redden  the  hills  when  June  is  nigh  ! 


The  Silk  of  the  Kine  shall  rest  at  last ; 

What  drove  her  forth  but  the  dragon  fly  ? 
In  the  golden  vale  she  shall  feed  full  fast, 

With  her  mild  gold  horn  and  her  slow  dark  eye. 

1  Mystical  names  of  Ireland  frequently  occur  in  Gaelic  poetry 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       233 

The  wounded  wood-dove  lies  dead  at  last ! 

The  pine  long- bleeding,  it  shall  not  die  ! 
This  song  is  secret.     Mine  ear  it  passed 

In  a  wind  o'er  the  plains  at  Athenry. 


234      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 


MICHAEL  DOHENY 

(1805-1863) 

A  CUSHLA  GAL  MO  CHREE1 

THE  long,  long  wished-for  hour  has  come, 
Yet  come,  astor,  in  vain ; 
And  left  thee  but  the  wailing  hum 
Of  sorrow  and  of  pain  ; 
My  light  of  life,  my  only  love  ! 

Thy  portion,  sure,  must  be 
Man's  scorn  below,  God's  wrath  above  — 
A  cuisle  geal  mo  chroidhe  ! 

I've  given  for  thee  my  early  prime, 

And  manhood's  teeming  years; 
I've  blessed  thee  in  my  merriest  time, 

And  shed  with  thee  my  tears ; 
And,  mother,  though  thou  cast  away 

The  child  who'd  die  for  thee, 
My  fondest  wishes  still  should  pray 

For  cuisle  geal  mo  chroidhe  ! 

For  thee  I've  tracked  the  mountain's  sides, 

And  slept  within  the  brake, 
More  lonely  than  the  swan  that  glides 

On  Lua's  fairy  lake. 

1  A  cushla  gal  mo  c/iree,  bright  vein  of  my  heart. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        235 

The  rich  have  spurned  me  from  their  door, 

Because  I'd  make  thee  free ; 
Yet  still  I  love  thee  more  and  more, 

A  cuisle  geal  mo  chroidhe  ! 

I've  run  the  outlaw's  wild  career, 

And  borne  his  load  of  ill ; 
His  rocky  couch — his  dreamy  fear  — 

With  fixed,  sustaining  will ; 
And  should  his  last  dark  chance  befall, 

Even  that  shall  welcome  be ; 
In  death  I'd  love  thee  best  of  all, 

A  cuisle  geal  mo  chroidhe  ! 

'Twas  told  of  thee  the  world  around, 

'Twas  hoped  for  thee  by  all, 
That  with  one  gallant  sunward  bound 

Thou'dst  burst  long  ages'  thrall ; 
Thy  faith  was  tied,  alas  !  and  those 

Who  periled  all  for  thee 
Were  cursed  and  branded  as  thy  foes, 

A  cuisle  geal  mo  chroidhe  ! 

What  fate  is  thine,  unhappy  Isle, 

When  even  the  trusted  few 
Would  pay  thee  back  with  hate  and  guile, 

When  most  they  should  be  true  ! 
'Twas  not  my  strength  or  spirit  quailed, 

Or  those  who'd  die  for  thee  — 
Who  loved  thee  truly  have  not  failed, 

A  cuisle  geal  mo  chroidhe  ! 


236      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURT  OF 


REV.  JAMES  B.  DOLLARD 
(1872-        ) 

IRISH  MIST  AND  SUNSHINE 
A  prelude. 

SOFT  mist  on  Irish  mountain, 
Bright  sun  on  field  and  dell, 
Swift  tides  of  joy  or  sorrow 

In  Celtic  hearts  that  swell ; 
Green  glen  and  haunted  woodland, 

Loved  homes  by  laughing  streams, 
Firm  faith  and  matchless  manhood, 
Lo  !  these  my  varied  themes. 

Round  tower  and  ivied  abbey, 

Low  whispering  of  the  past, 
Around  Life's  early  pathway 

Their  dreamful  shadows  cast. 
Wild  wind-blasts  sighing  voiceful 

Far  o'er  the  moorland  lone, 
Brought  throbbing  fairy  music 

To  thrill  with  mystic  tone. 

Gray  mist  and  flashing  sunshine 

That  fleck  the  gorse-land  brown :  — 
High  deed  and  cloudy  legend 

Of  Eire's  old  renown  ; 
The  saints'  and  martyrs'  yearnings, 

The  patriot's  rhapsodies, 
With  tim'rous  touch  uncertain, 

I  strike  the  harp  to  these. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       237 

Fair  land  of  Mist  and  Sunshine, 

The  distant  exile  thrills, 
In  dream  of  home  and  kindred 

To  see  thy  holy  hills. 
Should  song  of  mine  flow  clearer 

Old  scenes  and  skies  of  blue, 
Old  hopes  that  crown  life  dearer, 

I  hold  my  trust  made  true. 


THE  FALLIN'  O'  THE  RAIN 

GOOD-BYE  to  County  Carlow,  'tis  the  lonesome 
place  to  me, 
Sure  every  week  is  like  a  month,  and  every 

month  like  three. 
The  mist  is  coming  wet  and  cold,  but  now  I  won't 

complain, 
I'm  going  home,  and  little  reck  the  fallin'  o*  the  rain. 

'Twas  foolishness  that  brought  me  here,  I  wonder  at 

it  now ; 
Too  proud  was  I  to  work  the  spade  or  follow  up  the 

plow; 
But  little  work  and  gold  galore  won't  heal  the  heart 

o'  pain 
'And  I'm  off  to  old  Kilkenny  thro'  the  fallin'  o'  the 

rain. 

'Twas  foolishness  that  brought  me  here,  'twas  madness 

made  me  stay, 
With  not  a  hillside  slopin'  green  to  rest  my  eyes  all 

day, 


238      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURr  OF 

But  Allen's  bog  outstretchin'  like  the  level,  blindin' 

main, 
And  ne'er  burst  o'  sunshine  for  the  fallin'  o'  the  rain. 

A  plague  upon  the  landlord  crew,  they're  everywhere 

the  same : 
If  Ireland's  deep  in  poverty,  we  know  to  whom  the 

blame ; 
Black  greed  is  in  their  grasping  hearts,  they'd  rob  us 

root  and  grain, 
Just  judgment  fall   upon  'em  with  the  fallin'  o'  the 

rain. 

The  lads  are  tall  and  hearty  here,  their  faces  good  to 

see, 
And  God  will   sure  reward   'em  all   their   kindness 

unto  me, 
But  when  I  feigned  their  merry  dance,  and  heard  the 

pipers  play 
My  heart  nigh   burst  with  longin'  for  the  faces  far 

away. 

I  wonder  if  'tis  but  a  dream  a  hundred  times  a  day, 
And  draw  my  hand  across  my  eyes  to  drive  it  all 

away ; 
Then  faint  and  dim  I  see  the  hills  beyond  this  weary 

plain, 
They  call  my  wild  heart  ever  thro'  the  fallin'  o'  the 

rain. 

But — soon  I'll  breathe  the  heather  breath  on  brown 

Knockbrocken's  side 
And   see  a  silver-shining  stream   across   the  valleys 

glide ; 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        239 

No  rest  shall  taste  these  weary  limbs,  or  sleep  the 

throbbin'  brain, 
Till  Suir's  flood  shows  gleamin'  thro'  the  fallin'  o'  the 

rain. 


WHEN  THE  WEST  WIND  BLOWS 

I  AM  leaving  of  Kilyonan, 
An'  I'm  goin'  ten  mile  away 
To  the  back  of  Nephin  mountain, 

Where  the  gentle  rivers  play. 
I  must  flee  the  wicked  ocean 

That  has  caused  my  woe  of  woes, 
For  its  cryin'  waves  they  rack  me 
When  the  west  wind  blows. 

'Tis  the  torture  of  a  mother 

When  her  treasured  ones  are  lost, 
An'  she  sees  the  bitter  water 

Where  their  cold  limbs  are  tossed  ! 
Oh,  black  the  hour  they  sailed  away, 

The  angry  clouds  arose, 
An'  their  bed  is  hard  an'  troubled 

When  the  west  wind  blows  ! 

I  heard  the  Banshee  wailin', 

An'  woke  in  heavy  fright, 
I  said,  "  My  Neil  and  Moran, 

Oh,  go  not  out  to-night. 
For  I  heard  the  Banshee  cryin' 

Where  the  haunted  hazel  grows, 
An'  'tis  evil  sound  her  keenin 

When  the  west  wind  blows  !  " 


24o      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURT  OF 

My  gold-haired  Moran  kissed  me, 

(Oh  !  bleeding  heart  so  sore  !) 
"  'Tis  back  we'll  be  at  mornin' 

With  a  brimming  boat  galore ; 
'Tis  home  we'll  come  at  mornin', 

When  the  full  tide  flows." 
Ah  !  his  words  are  with  me  ever 

While  the  west  wind  blows. 

I'm  leavin'  of  Kilyonan, 

An'  the  ocean's  wicked  waves, 
My  keenest  woe  that  never 

I  may  kneel  o'er  their  graves. 
But  I'll  pray  to  God,  our  Father, 

He  will  grant  their  souls  repose ; 
He  will  ease  my  bitter  sorrow 

While  the  west  wind  blows  ! 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       241 


EDWARD  DOWDEN 

(1843-        ) 

AWAKENING 

WITH  brain  o'erworn,  with  heart  a  summer  clod, 
With  eye  so  practiced  ineach  form  around,— 
And  all  forms  mean, — to  glance  above  the 

ground 

Irks  it,  each  day  of  many  days  we  plod, 
Tongue-tied  and  deaf,  along  life's  common  road. 
But  suddenly,  we  know  not  how,  a  sound 
Of  living  streams,  an  odor,  a  flower  crowned 
With  dew,  a  lark  upspringing  from  the  sod 
And  we  awake.     O  joy  and  deep  amaze ! 
Beneath  the  everlasting  hills  we  stand, 
We  hear  the  voices  of  the  morning  seas, 
And  earnest  prophesyings  in  the  land, 
While  from  the  open  heaven  leans  forth  at  gaze 
The  encompassing  great  cloud  of  witnesses. 


G 


LADY  MARGARET'S  SONG 

IRLS,  when  I  am  gone  away, 

On  this  bosom  strew 
Only  flowers  meek  and  pale, 
And  the  yew. 


242      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 

Lay  these  hands  down  by  my  side, 

Let  my  face  be  bare ; 
Bind  a  kerchief  round  the  face, 

Smooth  my  hair. 

Let  my  bier  be  borne  at  dawn, 
Summer  grows  so  sweet, 

Deep  into  the  forest  green 
Where  boughs  meet. 

Then  pass  away,  and  let  me  lie 
One  long,  warm,  sweet  day 

There  alone,  with  face  upturned, 
One  sweet  day. 

While  the  morning  light  grows  broad, 
While  noon  sleepeth  sound, 

While  the  evening  falls  and  faints, 
While  the  world  goes  round. 


SONG 

From  "  Windle- Straws" 

WERE  life  to  last  forever,  love, 
We  might  go  hand  in  hand, 
And  pause  and  pull  the  flowers  that  blow 

In  all  the  idle  land, 
And  we  might  lie  in  sunny  fields 

And  while  the  hours  away 
With  fallings-out  and  fallings-in 
For  half  a  summer  day. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       243 

But  since  we  two  must  sever,  love, 

Since  some  dim  hour  we  part, 
I  have  no  tune  to  give  thee  much 

But  quickly  take  my  heart, 
"Forever  thine,"  and  "thine  my  love," — 

O  Death  may  come  apace. 
What  more  of  love  could  life  bestow, 

Dearest,  than  this  embrace. 


244      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 


BARTHOLOMEW  BOWLING 

(1823-1863) 

THE  BRIGADE  AT  FONTENOY 

May  n,  1745. 

BY  our  camp-fires  rose  a  murmur, 
At  the  dawning  of  the  day, 
And  the  tread  of  many  footsteps 
Spoke  the  advent  of  the  fray ; 
And,  as  we  took  our  places, 

Few  and  stern  were  our  words, 
While  some  were  tightening  horse-girths 
And  some  were  girding  swords. 

The  trumpet  blast  has  sounded 

Our  footmen  to  array  — 
The  willing  steed  has  bounded, 

Impatient  for  the  fray  — 
The  green  flag  is  unfolded, 

While  rose  the  cry  of  joy  — 
1  Heaven  speed  dear  Ireland's  banner 

To-day  at  Fontenoy  !  " 

We  looked  upon  that  banner, 

And  the  memory  arose. 
Of  our  homes  and  perished  kindred 

Where  the  Lee  or  Shannon  flows ; 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       245 

We  looked  upon  that  banner, 

And  we  swore  to  God  on  high 
To  smite  to-day  the  Saxon's  might  — 

To  conquer  or  to  die. 

Loud  swells  the  charging  trumpet  — 

'Tis  a  voice  from  our  own  land  — 
God  of  battles  1  God  of  vengeance  ! 

Guide  to-day  the  patriot's  brand  ! 
There  are  stains  to  wash  away, 

There  are  memories  to  destroy, 
In  the  best  blood  of  the  Briton 

To-day  at  Fontenoy. 

Plunge  deep  the  fiery  rowels 

In  a  thousand  reeking  flanks  — 
Down,  chivalry  of  Ireland, 

Down  on  the  British  ranks  ! 
Now  shall  their  serried  columns 

Beneath  our  sabres  reel  — 
Through  their  ranks,  then,  with  the  war-horse 

Through  their  bosoms  with  the  steel. 

With  one  shout  for  good  King  Louis 

And  the  fair  land  of  the  vine, 
Like  the  wrathful  Alpine  tempest 

We  swept  upon  their  line  — 
Then  ran  along  the  battle-field 

Triumphant  our  hurrah, 
And  we  smote  them  down,  still  cheering, 

"£rin,  slangthagal  go  bragh  !  "  ' 

1  Erin     .     .     .     bragh,  Erin,  your  bright  health  forever. 


246      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURT  OF 

As  prized  as  is  the  blessing 

From  an  aged  father's  lip  — 
As  welcome  as  the  haven 

To  the  tempest-driven  ship  — 
As  dear  as  to  the  lover 

The  smile  of  gentle  maid  — 
Is  this  day  of  long  sought  vengeance 

To  the  swords  of  the  Brigade. 

See  their  shattered  forces  flying, 

A  broken,  routed  line  — 
See,  England,  what  brave  laurels 

For  your  brow  to-day  we  twine. 
Oh,  thrice  blest  the  hour  that  witnessed 

The  Briton  turn  to  flee 
From  the  chivalry  of  Erin, 

And  France's  fleur-de-lis. 

As  we  lay  beside  our  camp-fires, 

When  the  sun  had  passed  away, 
And  thought  upon  our  brethren 

That  had  perished  in  the  fray — 
We  prayed  to  God  to  grant  us, 

And  then  we'd  die  with  joy, 
One  day  upon  our  own  dear  land 

Like  this  of  Fontenoy. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       247 


ELLEN  MARY  PATRICK  DOWNING 

(1828-1869) 

THE  OLD  CHURCH  AT  LISMORE 

This  poem,  inscribed  in  the  manuscript  "  My  Last  Verses," 
was  the  last  written  by  "  Mary  "  before  entering  on  her  noviti- 
ate in  1849. 

OLD    Church,    thou    still    art    Catholic ! — e'en 
dream  they  as  they  may 
That  the  new  rites  and  worship  have  swept  the 

old  away ; 
There  is  no  form  of  beauty  raised  by  Nature,  or  by 

art, 

That  preaches  not  God's  saving  truths  to  man's  ador- 
ing heart ! 

In  vain  they  tore  the  altar  down ;  in  vain  they  flung 

aside 
The  mournful  emblem  of  the  death  which  our  sweet 

Saviour  died ; 
In  vain  they  left  no  single  trace  of  saint  or  angel 

here  — 
Still  angel-spirits  haunt  the  ground,  and  to  the  soul 

appear. 

I  marvel  how,  in  scenes  like  these,  so  coldly  they  can 

pray, 
Nor  hold  sweet  commune  with  the  dead  who  once 

knelt  down  as  they  ; 


248      THE  GOLDEN  TRBJSURT  OF 

Yet  not  as  they,  in  sad  mistrust  or  sceptic  doubt — 

for,  oh, 
They  looked  in  hope  to  the  blessed  saints,  these  dead 

of  long  ago. 

And,  then,  the  churchyard,  soft  and  calm,  spread  out 

beyond  the  scene 
With  sunshine  warm  and  soothing  shade  and  trees 

upon  its  green ; 
Ah  !  though  their  cruel  Church  forbid,  are  there  no 

hearts  will  pray 
For  the  poor  souls  that  trembling  left  that  cold  and 

speechless  clay  ? 

My  God  !  I  am  a  Catholic  !     I  grew  into  the  ways 
Of  my  dear  Church  since  first  my  voice  could  lisp  a 

word  of  praise; 
But  oft  I  think  though  my  first  youth  were  taught  and 

trained  awrong, 
I  still  had  learnt  the  one  true  faith  from  Nature  and 

from  song  ! 

For  still,  whenever  dear  friends  die,  it  is  such  joy  to 

know 
They  are  not  all  beyond  the  care  that  healed  their 

wounds  below, 
That  we  can  pray  them  into  peace,  and  speed  them  to 

the  shore 
Where  clouds  and  cares  and  thorny  griefs  shall  vex 

their  hearts  no  more. 

And   the   sweet  saints,  so  meek  below,  so  merciful 
above ; 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       249 

And  the  pure  angels,  watching  still  with  such  untiring 
love; 

And  the  kind  Virgin,  Queen  of  Heaven,  with  all  her 
mother's  care, 

Who  prays  for  earth,  because  she  knows  what  break- 
ing hearts  are  there ! 

Oh,  let  us  lose  no  single  link  that  our  dear  Church  has 

bound, 
To  keep  our  hearts  more  close  to  Heaven,  on  earth's 

ungenial  ground; 
But  trust   in   saint  and  martyr  yet,  and  o'er  their 

hallowed  clay, 
Long  after  we  have  ceased  to  weep,  kneel  faithful 

down  to  pray. 

So  shall  the  land  for  us  be  still  the  Sainted  Isle  of  old, 
Where  hymn  and  incense  rise  to  Heaven,  and  holy 

beads  are  told  ; 
And  even  the  ground  they  tore  from  God,  in  years  of 

crime  and  woe, 
Instinctive  with  His  truth  and  love,  shall  breathe  of 

long  ago ! 


25o      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 


DR.  WILLIAM  DRENNAN 

(1754-1820) 

ERIN 

WHEN  Erin  first  rose  from  the  dark  swelling 
flood 
God  blessed  the  green  Island,  and  saw  it  was 

good; 

The  em'rald  of  Europe,  it  sparkled  and  shone  — 
In  the  ring  of  the  world  the  most  precious  stone. 
In  her  sun,  in  her  soil,  in  her  station  thrice  blest, 
With  her  back  towards  Britain,  her  face  to  the  West, 
Erin  stands  proudly  insular  on  her  steep  shore, 
And  strikes  her  high  harp  'mid  the  ocean's  deep  roar. 

But  when  its  soft  tones  seem  to  mourn  and  to  weep, 
The  dark  chain  of  silence  is  thrown  o'er  the  deep ; 
At  the  thought  of  the  past  the  tears  gush  from  her  eyes 
And  the  pulse  of  her  heart  makes  her  white  bosom  rise. 
Oh  !  sons  of  green  Erin,  lament  o'er  the  time 
When  religion  was  war  and  our  country  a  crime ; 
When  man  in  God's  image  inverted  his  plan, 
And  molded  his  God  in  the  image  of  man ; 

When  the  int'rest  of  State  wrought  the  general  woe, 
The  stranger  a  friend  and  the  native  a  foe; 
While  the  mother  rejoiced  o'er  her  children  oppressed 
And  clasped  the  invader  more  close  to  her  breast ; 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       251 

When  with  Pale  for  the  body  and  Pale  for  the  soul, 
Church  and  State  joined  in  compact  to  conquer  the 

whole, 

And,  as  Shannon  was  stained  with  Milesian  blood, 
Eyed  each  other  askance  and  pronounced  it  was  good. 

By  the  groans  that  ascend  from  your  forefathers'  grave 
For  their  country  thus  left  to  the  brute  and  the  slave, 
Drive  the  demon  of  Bigotry  home  to  his  den, 
And  where  Britain  made  brutes  now  let  Erin  make  men. 
Let  my  sons,  like  the  leaves  of  the  shamrock,  unite  — 
A  partition  of  sects  from  one  footstalk  of  right ; 
Give  each  his  full  share  of  the  earth  and  the  sky, 
Nor  fatten  the  slave  where  the  serpent  would  die. 

Alas  !  for  poor  Erin  that  some  are  still  seen 

Who  would  dye  the  grass  red  from  their  hatred  to  Green : 

Yet,  oh !  when  you're  up  and  they're  down,  let  them 

live, 
Then  yield  them  that  mercy  which  they  would  not 

give. 

Arm  of  Erin,  be  strong  !  but  be  gentle  as  brave  ! 
And,  uplifted  to  strike,  be  as  ready  to  save  ! 
Let  no  feeling  of  vengeance  presume  to  defile 
The  cause  or  the  men  of  the  Emerald  Isle. 

The  cause  it  is  good,  and  the  men  they  are  true, 
And  the  Green  shall  outlive  both  the  Orange  and  Blue  ! 
And  the  triumphs  of  Erin  her  daughters  shall  share 
With  the  full  swelling  chest  and  the  fair  flowing  hair. 
Their  bosom  heaves  high  for  the  worthy  and  brave, 
But  no  coward  shall  rest  in  that  soft-swelling  wave. 
Men  of  Erin  !  awake,  and  make  haste  to  be  blest ! 
Rise,  Arch  of  the  Ocean  and  Queen  of  the  West ! 


252      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

THE  WAKE  OF  WILLIAM   ORR 

THERE  our  murdered  brother  lies  ; 
Wake  him  not  with  woman's  cries; 
Mourn  the  way  that  manhood  ought 
Sit  in  silent  trance  of  thought. 

Write  his  merits  on  your  mind ; 
Morals  pure  and  manners  kind  ; 
In  his  head,  as  on  a  hill, 
Virtue  placed  her  citadel. 

Why  cut  off  in  palmy  youth  ? 
Truth  he  spoke,  and  acted  truth. 
"Countrymen,  UNITE,"  he  cried, 
And  died  for  what  our  Saviour  died. 

God  of  peace  and  God  of  love  ! 
Let  it  not  Thy  vengeance  move  — 
Let  it  not  thy  lightnings  draw  — 
A  nation  guillotined  by  law. 

Hapless  Nation,  rent  and  torn, 
Thou  wert  early  taught  to  mourn ; 
Warfare  of  six  hundred  years  ! 
Epochs  marked  with  blood  and  tears  ! 

Hunted  thro'  thy  native  grounds, 
Or  flung  reward  to  human  hounds, 
Each  one  pulled  and  tore  his  share, 
Heedless  of  thy  deep  despair. 

Hapless  Nation  !  hapless  Land  ! 
Heap  of  uncementing  sand  I 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       253 

Crumbled  by  a  foreign  weight : 
And  by  worse,  domestic  hate. 

God  of  mercy  !  God  of  peace  ! 
Make  this  mad  confusion  cease ; 
O'er  the  mental  chaos  move, 
Through  it  SPEAK  the  light  of  love. 

Monstrous  and  unhappy  sight ! 
Brothers'  blood  will  not  unite ; 
Holy  oil  and  holy  water 
Mix,  and  fill  the  world  with  slaughter. 

Who  is  she  with  aspect  wild  ? 
The  widowed  mother  with  her  child  — 
Child  new  stirring  in  the  womb  ! 
Husband  waiting  for  the  tomb  ! 

Angel  of  this  sacred  place, 
Calm  her  soul  and  whisper  peace  — 
Cord,  or  axe,  or  guillotine, 
Make  the  sentence — not  the  sin. 

Here  we  watch  our  brother's  sleep : 
Watch  with  us,  but  do  not  weep : 
Watch  with  us  thro'  dead  of  night  — 
But  expect  the  morning  light. 

Conquer  fortune — persevere  !  — 
Lo  !  it  breaks,  the  morning  clear  ! 
The  cheerful  cock  awakes  the  skies, 
The  day  is  come — arise  ! — arise  ! 


254      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 


WILLIAM  DRENNAN,  JR. 

(1802-1873) 

THE  BATTLE  OF  BEAL-AN-ATHA-BUIDH 


BY  O'Neill  close  beleaguered,  the  spirits  might 
droop 
Of  the  Saxon  —  three  hundred  shut  up  in  their 

coop, 

Till  Bagenal  drew  forth  his  Toledo,  and  swore, 
On  the  sword  of  a  soldier  to  succor  Portmore. 

His  veteran  troops,  in  the  foreign  wars  tried  — 
Their  features  how  bronzed,  and  how  haughty  their 

stride  — 

Stept  steadily  on  ;  it  was  thrilling  to  see 
The  thunder-cloud  brooding  o'er  BEAL-AN  ATHA- 

BUIDH. 

The  flash  of  their  armor,  inlaid  with  fine  gold,  — 
Gleaming  matchlocks  and  cannons   that  mutteringly 

rolled  — 

With  the  tramp  and  the  clank  of  those  stern  cuirassiers, 
Dyed  in  the  blood  of  the  Flemish  and  French  cavaliers. 

And  are  the  mere  Irish,  with  pikes  and  with  darts  — 
With   but   glib-covered   heads,  and    but   rib-guarded 
hearts  — 

1  Beal-an-atha-buidh  literally  means  the  Mouth  of  the  Yellow 
Ford,  and  is  pronounced  Beal-un-ath-buie. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       255 

Half-naked,  half-fed,  with  few  muskets,  no  guns  — 
The  battle  to  dare  against  England's  stout  sons  ? 

Poor  Bonnochts?  and  wild  Gallowglasses,  and  Kern  — 
Let  them  war  with  rude  brambles,  sharp  furze,  and 

dry  fern ; 

Wirrastrue*  for  their  wives — for  their  babies  ochanie* 
If  they  wait   for   the   Saxon   at   BEAL-AN-ATHA- 

BUIDH. 

Yet  O'Neill  standeth  firm — few  and  brief  his  com- 
mands — 

"  Ye  have  hearts  in  your  bosoms,  and  pikes  in  your 
hands ; 

Try  how  far  ye  can  push  them,  my  children,  at  once ; 

Fag-a-Bealach  /* — and  down  with  horse,  foot,  and 
great  guns. 

"  They  have  gold  and  gay  arms — they  have  biscuit  and 

bread ; 

Now,  sons  of  my  soul,  we'll  be  found  and  be  fed ;  " 
And  he  clutched  his  claymore,  and — "  look  yonder," 

laughed  he, 
"  What  a  grand  commissariat  for  BEAL-AN-ATHA- 

BUIDH." 

Near  the  chief,  a  grim  tyke,  an  O'Shanaghan  stood, 
His  nostrils  dilated  seemed  snuffing  for  blood  ; 
Rough  and  ready  to  spring,  like  the  wiry  wolf-hound 
Of  lerne,  who,  tossing  his  pike  with  a  bound, 

l  Bonnocht,  a  billeted  soldier. 

4  Wirrastrue  (A  Mhuire  as  truagh~},  Oh  !  Mary,  what  sorrow  ! 

8  Ochanie — ochone,  woe. 

4  Fag-a-Bealach,  clear  the  way. 


256      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURr  OF 

Cried,  "  My  hand  to  the  Sassenach  !  ne'er  may  I  hurl 
Another  to  earth  if  I  call  him  a  churl ! 
He  finds  me  in  clothing,  in  booty,  in  bread  — 
My  Chief,  won't  O'Shanaghan  give  him  a  bed?" 

"  Land  of  Owen,  aboo !  "  and  the  Irish  rushed  on  — 
The  foe  fired  but  one  volley — their  gunners  are  gone ; 
Before  the  bare  bosoms  the  steel-coats  have  fled, 
Or,  despite  casque  or  corslet,  lie  dying  and  dead. 

And  brave  Harry  Bagenal,  he  fell  while  he  fought 
With  many  gay  gallants — they  slept  as  men  ought ; 
Their  faces  to  Heaven — there  were  others,  alack  ! 
By  pikes  overtaken,  and  taken  aback. 

And  my  Irish  got  clothing,  coin,  colors,  great  store, 
Arms,  forage,  and  provender — plunder  go  leor  !  1 
They  munched  the  white  manchets — they  champed 

the  brown  chine, 
Fuilleluah  !  *  for  that  day,  how  the  natives  did  dine  ! 

The  Chieftain  looked  on,  when  O'Shanaghan  rose, 

And  cried,  "  Hearken,  O'Neill  !  I've  a  health  to  pro- 
pose— 

'To  our  Sassenach  hosts  '  "  and  all  quaffed  in  huge 
glee. 

With  "  Cead  mile  failte  go"1  BEAL-AN-ATHA- 
BUIDH!" 

1  Go  leor,  in  abundance. 

*  Fuilleluah,  joyous  exclamation. 

3  Cead  mile  failte  go,  a  hundred  thousand  welcomes  to. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       257 


REV.  W.  H.  DRUMMOND 
(1778-1865) 

CUCHULLIN'S  CHARIOT 

The  original,  of  which  this  is  a  considerably  amplified  ver- 
sion, is  from  an  old  Irish  romance  entitled,  "  The  Breach  of 
the  Plain  of  Muirhevney." 

THE  car,  light-moving,  I  behold, 
Adorned  with  gems  and  studs  of  gold  ; 
Ruled  by  the  hand  of  skilful  guide, 
Swiftly — and  swiftly — see  it  glide  ! 
Sharp-formed  before,  through  dense  array 
Of  foes  to  cut  its  onward  way ; 
While  o'er  its  firm-fixed  seat  behind 
Swells  the  green  awning  in  the  wind. 
It  mates  in  speed  the  swallow's  flight, 
Or  roebuck  bounding  fleet  and  light, 
Or  fairy  breeze  of  viewless  wing, 
That  in  the  joyous  day  of  spring 
Flies  o'er  the  champaign's  grassy  bed, 
And  up  the  cairn-crowned  mountain's  head. 

Comes  thundering  on,  unmatched  in  speed, 
The  gallant  gray,  high-bounding  steed ; 
His  four  firm  hoofs,  at  every  bound, 
Scarce  seem  to  touch  the  solid  ground, 
Outflashing  from  their  flinty  frame 
Flash  upon  flash  of  ruddy  flame. 


258      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

The  other  steed,  of  equal  pace, 
Well  shaped  to  conquer  in  the  race ; 
Of  slender  limb,  firm-knit,  and  strong, 

His  small,  light  head  he  lifts  on  high, 
Impetuous  as  he  scours  along ; 

Red  lightning  glances  from  his  eye ; 
Flung  on  his  curving  neck  and  chest 
Toss  his  crisped  manes  like  warrior's  crest 
Of  the  wild  chafer's  dark-brown  hues, 
The  color  that  his  flanks  imbues. 
The  charioteer,  of  aspect  fair, 

In  front  high-seated  rides ; 
He  holds  the  polished  reins  with  care, 

And  safe  and  swiftly  guides, 
With  pliant  will  and  practiced  hand, 
Obedient  to  his  lord's  command. 
That  splendid  chief,  whose  visage  glows 
As  brilliant  as  the  crimson  rose. 
Around  his  brows,  in  twisted  fold, 
A  purple  satin  band  is  rolled, 
All  sparkling  bright  with  gems  and  gold  : 
And  such  his  majesty  and  grace 
As  speak  him  born  of  royal  race ; 
Worthy,  by  deeds  of  high  renown, 
To  win  and  wear  a  monarch's  crown. 

The  following  is  McPherson's  description  of  Cuchullin's  car: 
"  The  car,  the  car  of  war  comes  on,  like  the  flame  of  death !  the 
rapid  car  of  Cuchullin,  the  noble  son  of  Semo !  It  bends  be- 
hind like  a  wave  near  a  rock,  like  the  sun-streaked  mist  of  the 
heath.  Its  sides  are  embossed  with  stones,  and  sparkle  like 
the  sea  round  the  boat  of  night.  Of  polished  yew  is  its  beam ; 
its  seat  of  the  smoothest  bone.  The  sides  are  replenished  with 
spears ;  the  bottom  is  the  footstool  of  heroes." — Fingal,  Book  I. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       259 


LADY  HELEN  DUFFERIN 

(1807-1867) 

KATEY'S  LETTER 

OCH,  girls  dear,  did  you  ever  hear, 
I  wrote  my  love  a  letter  ? 
And  altho'  he  cannot  read, 
I  thought  'twas  all  the  better. 
For  why  should  he  be  puzzled 

YVith  hard  spelling  in  the  matter, 
When  the  ntaning  was  so  plain  ? 
That  I  loved  him  faithfully, 

And  he  knows  it — oh,  he  knows  it- 
Without  one  word  from  me. 

I  wrote  it,  and  I  folded  it, 

And  put  a  seal  upon  it, 
"Twas  a  seal  almost  as  big 

As  the  crown  of  my  best  bonnet ; 
For  I  would  not  have  the  postmaster 

Make  his  remarks  upon  it, 
As  I'd  said  inside  the  letter 

That  I  loved  him  faithfully, 

And  he  knows  it — oh,  he  knows  it- 

Without  one  word  from  me. 

My  heart  was  full,  but  when  I  wrote 

I  dare  not  put  it  half  in; 
The  neighbors  know  1  love  him, 


260      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURT  OF 

And  they're  mighty  fond  of  chaffing, 
So  I  dare  not  write  his  name  outside, 

For  fear  they  would  be  laughing,      . 
So  I  wrote  "  From  little  Kate  to  one 

Whom  she  loves  faithfully," 

And  he  knows  it — oh,  he  knows  it  — 

Without  one  word  from  me. 

Now,  girls,  would  you  believe  it, 

That  postman,  so  consated, 
No  answer  will  he  bring  me, 

So  long  as  I  have  waited ; 
But  maybe — there  mayn't  be  one, 

For  the  reason  that  I  stated  — 
That  my  love  can  neither  read  nor  write, 

But  loves  me  faithfully, 

And  I  know  where'er  my  love  is, 

That  he  is  true  to  me. 


LAMENT  OF  THE  IRISH  EMIGRANT 

I'M  sittin'  on  the  stile,  Mary, 
Where  we  sat  side  by  side, 
On  a  bright  May  mornin',  long  ago, 
When  first  you  were  my  bride : 
The  corn  was  springin'  fresh  and  green, 

And  the  lark  sang  loud  and  high  — 
And  the  red  was  on  your  lip,  Mary, 
And  the  lovelight  in  your  eye. 

The  place  is  little  changed,  Mary  ; 

The  day  is  bright  as  then ; 
The  lark's  loud  song  is  in  my  ear, 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       261 

And  the  corn  is  green  again  ; 
But  I  miss  the  soft  clasp  of  your  hand, 

And  your  breath,  warm  on  my  cheek, 
And  I  still  keep  list'nin1  for  the  words 

You  never  more  will  speak. 

'Tis  but  a  step  down  yonder  lane, 

And  the  little  church  stands  near  — 
The  church  where  we  were  wed,  Mary  \ 

I  see  the  spire  from  here. 
But  the  graveyard  lies  between,  Mary, 

And  my  step  might  break  your  rest  — 
For  I'  ve  laid  you,  darling  !  down  to  sleep 

With  your  baby  on  your  breast. 

I'm  very  lonely  now,  Mary, 

For  the  poor  make  no  new  friends : 
But,  oh  !  they  love  the  better  still, 

The  few  our  Father  sends  ! 
And  you  were  all  /  had,  Mary  — 

My  blessin'  and  my  pride  ! 
There's  nothin'  left  to  care  for  now, 

Since  my  poor  Mary  died. 

Yours  was  the  good,  brave  heart,  Mary, 

That  still  kept  hoping  on 
When  the  trust  in  God  had  left  my  soul, 

And  my  arm's  young  strength  was  gone ; 
There  was  comfort  ever  on  your  lip 

And  the  kind  look  on  your  brow  — 
I  bless  you,  Mary,  for  that  same, 

Though  you  cannot  hear  me  now. 


262      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

I  thank  you  for  the  patient  smile 

When  your  heart  was  fit  to  break, 
When  the  hunger-pain  was  gnawin'  there, 

And  you  hid  it  for  my  sake ; 
I  bless  you  for  the  pleasant  word 

When  your  heart  was  sad  and  sore  — 
Oh  !  I'm  thankful  you  are  gone,  Mary, 

Where  grief  can't  reach  you  more ! 

I'm  biddin'  you  a  long  farewell, 

My  Mary — kind  and  true  ! 
But  I'll  not  forget  you,  darling, 

In  the  land  I'm  goin'  to : 
They  say  there's  bread  and  work  for  all, 

And  the  sun  shines  always  there  — 
But  I'll  not  forget  Old  Ireland, 

Were  it  fifty  times  as  fair  ! 

And  often  in  those  grand  old  woods 

I'll  sit  and  shut  my  eyes, 
And  my  heart  will  travel  back  again 

To  the  place  where  Mary  lies ; 
And  I'll  think  I  see  the  little  stile 

Where  we  sat  side  by  side, 
And  the  springin'  corn,  and  the  bright  May  morn, 

When  first  you  were  my  bride. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       263 


THOMAS  BUFFET 

(Circa  1676) 

COME  ALL  YOU  PALE  LOVERS 

COME  all  you  pale  lovers  that  sigh  and  complain, 
While  your  beautiful  tyrants  but  laugh  at  your 

pain, 

Come  practice  with  me 
To  be  happy  and  free, 
In  spite  of  inconstancy,  pride,  or  disdain. 
I  see  and  I  love,  and  the  bliss  I  enjoy 
No  rival  can  lessen  nor  envy  destroy. 

My  mistress  so  fair  is,  no  language  or  art 
Can  describe  her  perfection  in  every  part ; 

Her  mien's  so  genteel, 

With  such  ease  she  can  kill, 
Each  look  with  new  passion  she  captures  my  heart. 

Her  smiles,  the  kind  message  of  love  from  her  eyes, 
When  she  frowns  'tis  from  others  her  flame  to  disguise. 

Thus  her  scorn  or  her  spite 

I  convert  to  delight, 
As  the  bee  gathers  honey  wherever  he  flies. 

My  vows  she  receives  from  her  lover  unknown, 
And  I  fancy  kind  answers  although  I  have  none. 


264      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

How  blest  should  I  be 

If  our  hearts  did  agree, 
Since  already  I  find  so  much  pleasure  alone. 
I  see  and  I  love,  and  the  bliss  I  enjoy 
No  rival  can  lessen  nor  envy  destroy. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       265 


SIR  CHARLES  GAVAN  DUFFY 
(1816-1903) 

INNISHOWEN 

GOD  bless  the  gray  mountains  of  dark  Donegal, 
God  bless  Royal  Aileach,  the  pride  of  them 
all; 

For  she  sits  evermore  like  a  queen  on  her  throne, 
And  smiles  on  the  valley  of  Green  Innishowen. 
And  fair  are  the  valleys  of  Green  Innishowen, 
And  hardy  the  fishers  that  call  them  their  own  — 
A  race  that  nor  traitor  nor  coward  have  known 
Enjoy  the  fair  valleys  of  Green  Innishowen. 

Oh  !  simple  and  bold  are  the  bosoms  they  bear, 

Like  the  hills  that  with  silence  and  nature  they  share ; 

For  our  God,  who  hath  planted  their  home  near  his 
own, 

Breathed  his  spirit  abroad  upon  fair  Innishowen. 
Then  praise  to  our  Father  for.  wild  Innishowen, 
Where  fiercely  forever  the  surges  are  thrown  — 
Nor  weather  nor  fortune  a  tempest  hath  blown 
Could    shake    the    strong    bosoms    of    brave   In- 
nishowen. 

See  the  bountiful  Couldah  *  careering  along  — 
A  type  of  their  manhood  so  stately  and  strong  — 

1  Couldah,  Culdaff,  the  chief  river  in  the  Innishowen  moun- 
tains. 


266      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

On  the  weary  forever  its  tide  is  bestown, 

So  they  share  with  the  stranger  in  fair  Innishowen. 

God  guard  the  kind  homesteads  of  fair  Innishowen. 

Which  manhood  and  virtue  have  chos'n  for  their 
own; 

Not  long  shall  that  nation  in  slavery  groan, 

That  rears  the  tall  peasants  of  fair  Innishowen. 

Like  that  oak  of  St.  Bride  which  nor  Devil  nor  Dane, 
Nor  Saxon  nor  Dutchman  could  rend  from  her  fane, 
They  have  clung  by  the  creed  and  the  cause  of  their 

own 

Through  the  midnight  of  danger  in  true  Innishowen. 
Then  shout  for  the  glories  of  old  Innishowen, 
The    stronghold    that    foemen    have    never   o'er- 

thrown  — 

The  soul  and  the  spirit,  the  blood  and  the  bone, 
That  guard  the  green  valleys  of  true  Innishowen. 

No  purer  of  old  was  the  tongue  of  the  Gael, 
When  the  charging  aboo  made  the  foreigner  quail; 
When  it  gladdens  the  stranger  in  welcome's  soft  tone. 
In  the  home-loving  cabins  of  kind  Innishowen, 

Oh  !  flourish,  ye  homesteads  of  kind  Innishowen, 

Where  seeds  of  a  people's  redemption  are  sown  ; 

Right   soon   shall   the  fruit  of  that   sowing   have 
grown, 

To  bless  the  kind  homesteads  of  green  Innishowen. 

When  they  tell  us  the  tale  of  a  spell -stricken  band, 
All  entranced,  with  their  bridles  and  broadswords  in 

hand, 
Who  await  but  the  word  to  give  Erin  her  own, 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       267 

They  can  read  you  that  riddle  in  proud  Innishowen. 
Hurra  for  the  Spaemen1  of  proud  Innishowen  !  — 
Long  live  the  wild  Seers  of  stout  Innishowen  !  — 
May  Mary,  our  mother,  be  deaf  to  their  moan 
Who  love  not  the  promise  of  proud  Innishoweu  ! 


THE  IRISH  RAPPAREES 

A  peasant  ballad 

"  When  Limerick  was  surrendered  and  the  bulk  of  the  Irish 
army  took  service  with  Louis  XIV,  a  multitude  of  the  old 
soldiers  of  the  Boyne,  Aughrim,  and  Limerick,  preferred  re- 
maining in  the  country  at  the  risk  of  fighting  for  their  daily 
bread ;  and  with  them  some  gentlemen,  loath  to  part  from  their 
estates  or  their  sweethearts.  The  English  army  and  the  English 
law  drove  them  by  degrees  to  the  hills,  where  they  were  long 
a  terror  to  the  new  and  old  settlers  from  England,  and  a  secret 
pride  and  comfort  to  the  trampled  peasantry,  who  loved  them 
even  for  their  excesses.  It  was  all  they  had  left  to  take  pride 
in." — Author's  note. 

RICH  SHEMUS  he  has  gone  to  France  and  left 
his  crown  behind  :  — 
111   luck  be  theirs,  both  day  and  night,  put 

runnin'  in  his  mind  ! 

Lord  Lucan2  followed  after,  with  his  slashers  brave 
and  true, 

1  Spcemen,  an  Ulster  and  Scotch  term  signifying  a  person 
gifted  with  "  second  sight  " — a  prophet. 

2  After  the  Treaty  of  Limerick,  Patrick  Sarsfield,  Lord  Lucan, 
sailed  with  the  Brigade  to  France,  and  was  killed  while  leading 
his  countrymen  to  victory  at  the  battle  of  Lauden,  in  the  Low 
Countries,  July  29,  1693. 


268      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

And  now  the  doleful  keen  is  raised — "  What  will  poor 

Ireland  do? 

What  must  poor  Ireland  do  ? 
Our  luck,  they  say,  has  gone  to  France.     What  can 

poor  Ireland  do?" 

Oh,  never  fear  for  Ireland,  for  she  has  so'gers  still, 
For  Remy's  boys  are  in  the  wood,  and  Rory's  on  the 

hill; 
And  never  had  poor  Ireland  more  loyal  hearts  than 

these  — 
May  God  be  kind  and  good  to  them,  the  faithful 

Rapparees  ! 

The  fearless  Rapparees ! 
The  jewel  waar  ye,  Rory,  with  your  Irish  Rapparees  ! 

Oh,  black's  your  heart,  Clan  Oliver,  and  Moulder  than 

the  clay ! 
Oh,  high's  your  head,  Clan  Sassenach,  since  Sarsfield's 

gone  away  ! 

It's  little  love  you  bear  to  us  for  sake  of  long  ago  — 
But  howld  your  hand,  for  Ireland  still  can  strike  a 

deadly  blow  — 

Can  strike  a  mortal  blow  — 
Och  !  dar-a-Chriost .'  'tis  she  that  still  could  strike 

the  deadly  blow  ! 

The  master's  bawn,  the  master's  seat,  a  surly  bodach 1 

fills; 
The  master's  son,  an  outlawed  man,  is  riding  on  the 

hills ; 

i 

'  Bodach,  a  severe,  inhospitable  man ;  a  churl. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       269 

But,    God   be   praised,   that  round   him   throng,    as 

thick  as  summer  bees, 
The  swords  that  guarded  Limerick  walls — his  faithful 

Rapparees ! 

His  lovin'  Rapparees  ! 
Who  daar  say,  "No"  to  Rory  Oge,  who  heads  the 

Rapparees  ! 


Black  Billy  Grimes,  of  Latnamard,  he  racked  us  long 

and  sore  — 
God  rest  the  faithful  hearts  he  broke;  we'll  never  see 

them  more ! 
But  I'll  go  bail  he'll  break  no  more  while  Truagh  has 

gallows-trees, 
For   why?    he   met   one   lonesome   night   the   awful 

Rapparees  ! 

The  angry  Rapparees ! 
They  never  sin  no  more,   my  boys,  who  cross  the 

Rapparees. 


Now,  Sassenach  and  Cromweller,  take  heed  of  what 
I  say  — 

Keep  down  your  black  and  angry  looks  that  scorn  us 
night  and  day ; 

For  there's  a  just   and   wrathful  Judge   that  every 
action  sees, 

And  he'll  make  strong,  to  right  our  wrong,  the  faith- 
ful Rapparees  ! 

The  fearless  Rapparees  ! 

The  men  that  rode  at  Sarsfield's  side,  the  changeless 
Rapparees ! 


270      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 
THE  MUSTER  OF  THE  NORTH 

"  We  deny  and  have  always  denied  the  alleged  massacre  of 
1641.  But  that  the  people  rose  under  their  chiefs,  seized  the 
English  towns  and  expelled  the  English  settlers,  and  in  doing 
so  committed  many  excesses,  is  undeniable — as  is  equally  their 
desperate  provocation.  The  ballad  here  printed  is  not  meant 
as  an  apology  for  these  excesses,  which  we  condemn  and 
lament,  but  as  a  true  representation  of  the  feelings  of  the  in- 
surgents in  the  first  madness  of  success." — Author's  note. 

JOY  !  joy  !  the  day  is  come  at  last,  the  day  of  hope 
and  pride  — 
And  see  !  our  crackling  bonfires  light  old  Bann's 

rejoicing  tide, 
And   gladsome  bell   and    bugle-horn   from   Newry's 

captured  towers, 

Hark !  how  they  tell  the  Saxon  swine  this  land  is  ours 
— is  OURS  ! 


Glory  to  God  !  my  eyes  have  seen  the  ransomed  fields 
of  Down, 

My  ears  have  drunk  the  joyful  news,  "  Stout  Phelim 
hath  his  own." 

Oh  !  may  they  see  and  hear  no  more  ! — oh !  may 
they  rot  to  clay !  — 

When  they  forget  to  triumph  in  the  conquest  of  to- 
day. 

Now,  now  we'll  teach  the  shameless  Scot  to  purge  his 

thievish  maw  ; 
Now,  now  the  court  may  fall  to  pray,  for  Justice  is  the 

Law; 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        271 

Now  shall  the  Undertaker 1  square,  for  once,  his  loose 

accounts  — 
We'll  strike,  brave  boys,  a  fair  result,  from  all  his 

false  amounts. 


Come,  trample  down  their  robber  rule,  and  smite  its 

venal  spawn, 
Their  foreign  laws,  their  foreign  Church,  their  ermine 

and  their  lawn, 
With  all  the  specious  fry  of  fraud  that  robbed  us  of 

our  own ; 
And  plant  our  ancient  laws  again  beneath  our  lineal 

throne. 

Our  standard  flies  o'er  fifty  towers,  o'er  twice  ten 

thousand  men ; 
Down  have  we  plucked  the  pirate  Red,  never  to  rise 

again ; 
The  Green  alone  shall  stream  above  our  native  field 

and  flood  — 
The  spotless  Green,  save  where  its  folds  are  gemmed 

with  Saxon  blood  ! 

Pity ! a  no,  no,  you  dare  not,  priest — not  you,  our 

Father,  dare 
Preach  to  us  now  that  godless  creed — the  murderer's 

blood  to  spare ; 

1  The  Scotch  and  English  adventurers  planted  in  Ulster  by 
James  I  were  called  "  Undertakers." 

*  Leland,  the  Protestant  historian,  states  that  the  Catholic 
priests  "  labored  zealously  to  moderate  the  excesses  of  war," 
and  frequently  protected  the  English  by  concealing  them  in 
their  places  of  worship  and  even  under  their  altars. 


272      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

To  spare  his  blood,  while  tombless  still  our  slaughtered 

kin  implore 
"Graves    and    revenge"    from    Gobbin    cliffs    and 

Carrick's  bloody  shore  ! l 

Pity  !  could  we  "forget,  forgive,"  if  we  were  clods 
of  clay, 

Our  martyred  priests,  our  banished  chiefs,  our  race  in 
dark  decay, 

And,  worse  than  all — you  know  it,  priest — the  daugh- 
ters of  our  land  — 

With  wrongs  we  blushed  to  name  until  the  sword  was 
in  our  hand  ? 

Pity !  well,  if  you  needs  must  whine,  let  pity  have  its 
way  — 

Pity  for  all  our  comrades  true,  far  from  our  side  to- 
day: 

The  prison-bound  who  rot  in  chains,  the  faithful  dead 
who  poured 

Their  blood  'neath  Temple's  lawless  axe  or  Parson's 
ruffian  sword. 

They  smote  us  with  the  swearer's  oath  and  with  the 

murderer's  knife ; 
We  in  the  open  field  will  fight  fairly  for  land  and 

life; 
But,  by  the  dead  and  all  their  wrongs,  and  by  our 

hopes  to-day, 
One  of  us  twain  shall  fight  their  last,  or  be  it  we  or 

they. 

1  The  scene  of  the  massacre  of  the  unoffending  inhabitants  of 
Island  Magee  by  the  garrison  of  Carrickfergus. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       273 

They  banned  our  failh,  they  banned  our  lives,  they 

trod  us  into  earth, 
Until  our  very  patience  stirred  their  bitter  hearts  to 

mirth. 
Even  this  great  flame  that  wraps  them  now,  not  we 

but  they  have  bred  : 
Yes,  this  is  their  own  work ;  and  now  their  work  be 

on  their  head  ! 

Nay,    Father,    tell   us   not   of   help   from    Leinster's 

Norman  peers, 
If  we  shall  shape  our  holy  cause  to  match  their  selfish 

fears  — 
Helpless  and  hopeless  be  their  cause  who  brook  a 

vain  delay  ! 
Our  ship  is  launched,  our  flag's  afloat,  whether  they 

come  or  stay. 

Let  silken  Howth  and  savage  Slane  still  kiss  their 

tyrant's  rod, 

And  pale  Dunsany  still  prefer  his  master  to  his  God ; 
Little  we'd  miss  their  fathers'  sons,  the  Marchmen  of 

the  Pale, 
If  Irish  hearts  and  Irish  hands  had  Spanish  blade  and 

mail ! 

Then  let  them  stay  to  bow  and  fawn,  or  fight  with 
cunning  words; 

I  fear  no  more  their  courtly  arts  than  England's  hire- 
ling swords ; 

Nathless  their  creed,  they  hate  us  still,  as  the  de- 
spoiler  hates ; 

Could  they  love  us,  and  love  their  prey,  our  kinsmen's 
lost  estates  ? 


274      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

Our  rude  array's  a  jagged  rock  to  smash  the  spoiler's 

power  — 
Or,  need  we  aid,  his  aid  we  have  who  doomed  this 

gracious  hour ; 
Of  yore  he  led  his  Hebrew  host  to  peace   through 

strife  and  pain, 
And  us  he  leads  the  self-same  path  the  self-same  goal 

to  gain. 

Down  from  the  sacred  hills  whereon  a  saint l  com- 
muned with  God, 

Up  from  the  vale  where  Bagenal's  blood  manured  tht 
reeking  sod, 

Out  from  the  stately  woods  of  Truagh  M'Kenna's 
plundered  home, 

Like  Malin's  waves,  as  fierce  and  fast,  our  faithful 
clansmen  come. 

Then,    brethren,   on !    O'Neill's   dear   shade  would 

frown  to  see  you  pause  — 
Our  banished  Hugh,  our  martyred  Hugh,  is  watching 

o'er  your  cause  — 
His  generous  error  lost   the  land — he  deemed  the 

Norman  true ; 
Oh,  forward,  friends,  it  must  not  lose  the  land  again 

in  you  ! 

1  St.  Patrick,  whose  favorite  retreat  was  Lecale,  in  the  County 
Down. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        275 


MAURICE  F.  EGAN 
(1832-        ) 

BY  RIGHT  DIVINE  » 

IN  this  free  land  I  know  a  tyrant  king 
Who  rules  supreme  a  kingdom  all  his  own, 
Who  reigns  supreme  by  right  divine  alone, 
Who  governs  slaves  that  always  cringe  and  sing, — 
"  He  walks  !     He  talks  !  "  in  most  admiring  tone; 
They  quail  with  fear  if  he  but  makes  a  moan, 
And  wild  confusion  comes  if  he  but  fling 
Away  his  sceptre — coral,  jingling  thing  ! 
He  is  a  king,  though  loving  anarchy, 
A  tyrant  king,  whom  our  fond  land  obeys, 
A  tyrant  king,  yet  scarce  a  mimic  man ; 
And  this  whole  land  is  bound  in  monarchy, 
All  mother-hearts  some  little  ruler  sways, 
If  harder  fathers  be  republican. 


THE  SHAMROCK 

WHEN  April  rains  make  flowers  bloom 
And  Johnny-jump-ups  come  to  light, 
And  clouds  of  color  and  perfume 
Float  from  the  orchards  pink  and  white, 
I  see  my  shamrock  in  the  rain, 

An  emerald  spray  with  raindrops  set, 
Like  jewels  on  Spring's  coronet, 
So  fair,  and  yet  it  breathes  of  pain. 


276      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

The  shamrock  on  an  older  shore 

Sprang  from  a  rich  and  sacred  soil 
Where  saint  and  hero  lived  of  yore, 

And  where  their  sons  in  sorrow  toil ; 
And  here,  transplanted,  it  to  me 

Seems  weeping  for  the  soil  it  left 
And  diamonds  that  all  others  see 

Are  tears  drawn  from  its  heart  bereft. 

When  April  rain  makes  flowers  grow, 

And  sparkles  on  their  tiny  buds 
That  in  June  nights  will  over-blow 

And  fill  the  world  with  scented  floods, 
The  lonely  shamrock  in  our  land  — 

So  fine  among  the  clover  leaves  — 
For  the  old  springtimes  often  grieves  — 

I  feel  its  tears  upon  my  hand. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       277 


ROBERT  EMMET 

(1778-1803) 

Lines  written  on  Arbor  Hill  burying-ground,  Dublin,  where 
the  bodies  of  insurgents  shot  in  1798  were  interred. 

O  rising  column  marks  this  spot, 

Where  many  a  victim  lies ; 
But  oh  !  the  blood  which  here  has  streamed, 
To  Heaven  for  justice  cries. 


N 


It  claims  it  on  the  oppressor's  head, 

Who  joys  in  human  woe, 
Who  drinks  the  tears  by  misery  shed, 

And  mocks  them  as  they  flow. 

It  claims  it  on  the  callous  judge, 
Whose  hands  in  blood  are  dyed, 

Who  arms  injustice  with  the  sword, 
The  balance  throws  aside. 

It  claims  it  for  this  ruined  isle, 
Her  wretched  children's  grave ; 

Where,  withered  Freedom  droops  her  head, 
And  man  exists — a  slave. 

O  sacred  Justice  !  free  this  land 

From  tyranny  abhorred ; 
Resume  thy  balance  and  thy  seat  — 

Resume — but  sheathe  thy  sword. 


278      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

No  retribution  should  we  seek  — 
Too  long  has  horror  reigned  ; 

By  mercy  marked  may  freedom  rise, 
By  cruelty  unstained. 

Nor  shall  a  tyrant's  ashes  mix 
With  those  our  martyred  dead ; 

This  is  the  place  where  Erin's  sons 
In  Erin's  cause  have  bled. 

And  those  who  here  are  laid  at  rest, 
Oh  !  hallowed  be  each  name ; 

Their  memories  are  forever  blest  — 
Consigned  to  endless  fame. 

Unconsecrated  is  this  ground, 

Unblest  by  holy  hands ; 
No  bell  here  tolls  its  solemn  sound, 

No  monument  here  stands. 

But  here  the  patriot's  tears  are  shed, 
The  poor  man's  blessing  given ; 

These  consecrate  the  virtuous  dead, 
These  waft  their  fame  to  heaven. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       279 


FRANCIS  A.  FAHY 
(1854-        ) 

IRISH  MOLLY  O. 

OH  !  fairer  than  the  lily  tall,  and  sweeter  than  the 
rose, 
As  modest  as  the  violet  in   dewy  dell  that 

blows ; 
With  heart  as  warm  as  summer  noon,  and  pure  as 

winter  snow  — 
The  pride  of  Erin's  isle  is  she,  dear  Irish  Molly  O  ! 

No  linnet  of  the  hazel  grove  than  she  more  sweetly 

sang, 
No  sorrow  could  be  resting  where  her  guileless  laughter 

rang, 

No  hall  of  light  could  half  so  bright  as  that  poor  cabin 

glow 
Where  shone  the  face  of  love   and  grace  of  Irish 

Molly  O ! 

But  fever's  breath  struck  down  in  death  her  father 

strong  and  brave, 
And  who  should  now  his  little  ones  from  want  and 

sorrow  save  ? 
"Oh,  never  fear,   my   mother  dear,  across  the  seas 

I'll  go, 
And    win   for   ye   a   new   home   there,"    said    Irish 

Molly  O ! 


280      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

And  far  away  'mid  strangers  cold  she  toiled  for  many 
a  year, 

And  no  one  heard  the  heart-wrung  sigh  or  saw  the 
silent  tear, 

But  letters  fond  the  seas  beyond  would  kind  and  con- 
stant go, 

With  gold  won  dear,  and  words  of  cheer,  from  Irish 
Molly  O  ! 

And  one  by  one  she  sent  for  all  the  loved  ones  o'er  the 

foam, 
And  one  by  one  she  welcomed  them  to  her  fond  heart 

and  home, 
And  last  and  best  her  arms  caressed  the  aged  head  of 

snow  — 
"Oh,    mother,    we'll    be   happy   now!"   said   Irish 

Molly  O  ! 

Alas !  long   years    of  toil  and  tears  had  chilled  her 

young  heart's  glow, 
And  grief  and  care  had  blanched  her  hair  and  stilled 

her  pulse's  flow, 
And  when  the  spring  bade  wild  birds  sing  and  buds  in 

beauty  blow  — 
They  made  your  grave  where  willows  wave,  poor  Irish 

Molly  O  ! 

"THE  BOG  ROAD" 

Lisdoonvarna 

COULD  I  travel  afar  now 
From  Bantry  to  Barna, 
'Tis  to  Lisdoonvarna 
My  way  I  would  find  ; 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       281 

For  there,  one  bright  summer, 

Myself,  a  newcomer, 

Found  mirth,  fun,  and  humor 

That  ne'er  leaves  my  mind. 
Oh,  those  who  each  season, 
Without  rhyme  or  reason, 
Cross  far  foreign  seas  on 

To  light  the  heart's  load, 
Know  nought  of  the  pleasure, 
Without  stint  or  measure, 
That  waits  them  with  leisure 

Along  the  Bog  Road. 

All  sorts  and  conditions, 
All  trades  and  positions, 
Of  men  on  all  missions, 

Are  there  to  be  found  ; 
There  are  jobbers  and  teachers, 
And  pedlars  and  preachers, 
And  delicate  creatures 

From  all  Erin  round ; 
There  are  blooming  young  maidens, 
And  hearts  heavy  laden, 
And  stout  dames  that  no  sign 

Of  fading  yet  showed  ; 
While  dearly-dowered  daughters 
Are  trying  the  waters, 
And  sighing  for  partners 

Along  the  Bog  Road. 

'Tis  there  every  morning, 
Dull  drowsiness  scorning, 
Stout  lads  without  warning 
Roam  over  the  hills, 


282      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

While  matron  and  widdy 
(Lamenting  "poor  Biddy  ") 
Take  draughts  that  would  rid  ye, 

'Tis  said,  from  all  ills. 
There  farmers  together 
Discuss  on  the  heather 
The  markets,  the  weather, 

The  last  crops  they  sowed ; 
While  children  are  sporting, 
Young  couples  resorting 
Are  cozily  courting 

Along  the  Bog  Road. 

Of  priests  there's  a  legion 
From  every  known  region, 
The  hotels  besieging 

For  shakedowns  in  vain 
Dean,  Bishop,  and  Canon, 
From  Liffey  to  Shannon, 
For  reasons  no  man  on 

This  earth  could  explain ; 
Some  quietly  straying, 
Their  Offices  saying 
Some  jolly  and  gay  in 

The  long  cars  a  load ; 
Some  solemnly  stalking, 
Some  eagerly  talking  — 
You'll  meet  them  all  walking 

Along  the  Bog  Road. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       283 

THE  DONOVANS 

IF  you  would  like  to  see  the  height  of  hospitality, 
The   cream  of  kindly  welcome,  and  the  core  of 
cordiality : 
Joys  of  all  the  olden  time — you're  wishing  to  recall 

again  ? 

Come  down  to  Donovans,  and  there  you'll  meet  them 
all  again. 


Ctad  mile f&ilte J  they'll  give  you  down  at  Donovans, 
As  cheery  as  the  springtime  and  Irish  as  the  can- 

nawaun  * 

The  wish  of  my  heart  is,  if  ever  I  had  any  one  — 
That  every  luck  that  lightens  life  may  light  upon 
the  Donovans. 

As  soon  as  e'er  you  lift  the  latch,  the  little  ones  are 

meeting  you ; 
Soon  as  you're  beneath  the  thatch,  oh  !  kindly  looks 

are  greeting  you : 
Scarcely  are  you  ready  to  be  holding  out  the  fist  to 

them, 
When  down  by  the  fireside  you're  sitting  in  the  midst 

of  them. 

Ctade  mile  fdilte  they'll  give  you  down  at  Dono- 
vans, etc. 

There  sits  the  cailin  deas 8 — oh  !  where  on  earth's  the 
peer  of  her  ? 

1  C'ead  mile  faille,  a  hundred  thousand  welcomes. 
9  Cannawaun,  bog-cotton. 
3  Cailin  deas,  pretty  girl. 


284      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURT  OF 

The  modest  face,  the  gentle  grace,  the  humor  and  the 

cheer  of  her  — 
Eyes  like  the  summer  skies  when  twin  stars  beam  above 

in  them, 
Oh  !  proud  will  be  the  boy  that's  to  light  the  lamp  of 

love  in  them. 

Cead  milefdilte  they'll  give  you  down  at  Donovans, 
etc. 

Then  when  you  rise  to  go,  it's  "  Ah,  then,  now  sit 

down  again  !  " 
"  Isn't  it  the  haste  you're  in?  "  and  "  Won't  you  soon 

come  round  again  ?  ' ' 
Your    caubeen  and  your  overcoat  you'd  better  put 

astray  from  them, 
'Twill  take  you  all  your  time  to  try  and  tear  yourself 

away  from  them. 

Cead  milefdilte  they'll  give  you  down  at  Donovans, 
etc. 


THE  OULD  PLAID  SHAWL 

NOT  far  from  old  Kinvara,  in  the  merry  month 
of  May, 
When  birds  were  singing  cheerily,  there  came 

across  my  way, 

As  if  from  out  the  sky  above  an  angel  chanced  to  fall, 
A  little  Irish  cailin  in  an  ould  plaid  shawl. 

She   tripped   along  right  joyously,   a  basket  on  her 

arm; 
And  !  oh,  her  face,  and,  oh  !  her  grace,  the  soul  of 

saint  would  charm ; 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        285 

Her  brown  hair  rippled  o'er  her  brow,  but  greatest 

charm  of  all 
Was  her  modest  blue  eyes  beaming  'neath  her  ould 

plaid  shawl. 

I  courteously  saluted  her — "God  save  you,  miss," 

says  I ; 
"God  save   you   kindly,    sir,"   said   she,  and   shyly 

passed  me  by ; 
Off  went  my  heart  along  with  her,  a  captive  in  her 

thrall, 
Imprisoned  in  the  corner  of  her  ould  plaid  shawl. 

Enchanted  with  her  beauty  rare,  I  gazed  in  pure  de- 
light, 

Till  round  an  angle  of  the  road  she  vanished  from  my 
sight ; 

But  ever  since  I  sighing  say,  as  I  that  scene  recall, 

"  The  grace  of  God  about  you  and  your  ould  plaid 
shawl." 

I've  heard  of  highway  robbers  that,  with  pistols  and 

with  knives, 
Make  trembling  travelers  yield  them  up  their  money 

or  their  lives, 
But  think  of  me  that  handed  out  my  heart  and  head 

and  all 
To  a  simple  little  cailin  in  an  ould  plaid  shawl  ! 

Oh  !  graceful  the  mantillas  that  the  signorinas  wear, 
And  tasteful  are  the  bonnets  of  Parisian  ladies  fair, 
But  never  cloak  or  hood  or  robe,  in  palace,  bow'r,  or 
hall, 


286      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURT  OF 

Clad  half  such  witching  beauty  as  that  ould  plaid 
shawl. 

Oh  !  some  men  sigh  for  riches,  and  some  men  live  for 

fame, 
And  some  on  history's  pages  hope  to  win  a  glorious 

name; 
My  aims  are  not  ambitious,  and  my  wishes  are  but 

small  — 
You  might  wrap  them  all  together  in  an  ould  plaid 

shawl. 

I'll  seek  her  all  through  Galway,  and  I'll  seek  her  all 
through  Clare, 

I'll  search  for  tale  or  tidings  of  my  traveler  every- 
where, 

For  peace  of  mind  I'll  never  find  until  my  own  I  call 

That  little  Irish  cailin  in  her  ould  plaid  shawl. 


IRISH  SONGS  JND  LTRICS       287 


SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON 
(1810-1866) 

CEAN  DUBH  DEELISH1 

PUT  your  head,  darling,  darling,  darling, 
Your  darling  black  head  my  heart  above ; 
O  mouth  of  honey  with  the  thyme  for  fragrance, 
Who  with  heart  in  breast  could  deny  you  love? 

O  many  and  many  a  young  girl  for  me  is  pining, 
Letting  her  locks  of  gold  to  the  cold  winds  free, 

For  me,  the  foremost  of  the  gay  young  fellows, 
But  I'd  leave  a  hundred,  pure  love,  for  thee. 

Then  put  your  head,  darling,  darling,  darling, 
Your  darling  black  head  my  heart  above; 

O  mouth  of  honey  with  the  thyme  for  fragrance, 
Who  with  heart  in  breast  could  deny  you  love? 

DRIMMIN  DHU 

Translated  from  Irish. 

.  Drimmin  Dhu  Dheelish,  the  dear  black  cow,  was  another 
pseudonym  for  Ireland,  and  there  is  a  very  sweet  and  plaintive 
air  of  that  name. 

AH,  Drimmin  dhu  dheelish,  a  pride  of  the  flow,2 
Ah  where  are  your  folks  ? — are  they  living  or  no  ? 
They're  down  in  the  ground,  'neath  the  sod  ly- 
ing low, 
Expecting  King  James  with  the  crown  on  his  brow. 

1  Cean  dubh  deelish,  dear  black  head. 
z  The  grassy  part  of  a  bog. 


288      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

But  if  I  could  get  sight  of  the  crown  on  his  bro\v, 
By  day  and  night  traveling  to  London  I'd  go ; 
Over  mountains  of  mist  and  soft  mosses  belo\v, 
Till  it  beat  on  the  kettle  drums  Drimmin  dhu  O. 

Welcome  home,  welcome  home,  Drimmin  dhu  O  ! 
Good  was  your  sweet  milk  for  drinking,  I  trow ; 
With  your  face  like  a  rose,  and  your  dewlap  of  snow, 
I'll  part  from  you  never,  Drimmin  dhu  O  ! 


LAMENT  OVER  THE  RUINS  OF  THE 
ABBEY  OF  TIMOLEAGUE 


L 


ONE  and  weary  as  I  wandered 

By  the  bleak  shore  of  the  sea, 
Meditating  and  reflecting 
On  the  world's  hard  destiny; 


Forth  the  moon  and  stars  'gan  glimmer 
In  the  quiet  tide  beneath,  — 

For  on  slumbering  spray  and  blossom 
Breathed  not  out  of  heaven  a  breath. 

On  I  went  in  sad  dejection, 

Careless  where  my  footsteps  bore 

Till  a  ruined  church  before  me 
Opened  wide  its  ancient  door,  — 

Till  I  stood  before  the  portals, 
Where  of  old  were  wont  to  be, 

For  the  blind,  the  halt,  and  leper, 
Alms  and  hospitality. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        289 

Still  the  ancient  seat  was  standing 

Built  against  the  buttress  gray 
Where  the  clergy  used  to  welcome 

Weary  travelers  on  their  way. 

There  I  sat  me  down  in  sadness, 
'Neath  my  cheek  I  placed  my  hand, 

Till  the  tears  fell  hot  and  briny 
Down  upon  the  grassy  land. 

There,  I  said  in  woful  sorrow, 

Weeping  bitterly  the  while, 
Was  a  time  when  joy  and  gladness 

Reigned  within  this  ruined  pile :  — 

Was  a  time  when  bells  were  tinkling, 

Clergy  preaching  peace  abroad, 
Psalms  a-singing,  music  ringing 

Praises  to  the  mighty  God. 

Empty  aisle,  deserted  chancel, 

Tower  tottering  to  your  fall, 
Many  a  storm  since  then  has  beaten 

On  the  gray  head  of  your  wall  I 

Many  a  bitter  storm  and  tempest 

Has  your  roof-tree  turned  away, 
Since  you  first  were  formed  a  temple 

To  the  Lord  of  night  and  day. 

Holy  house  of  ivied  gables, 

That  wert  once  the  country's  pride, 

Houseless  now  in  weary  wandering 
Roam  your  inmates  far  and  wide. 


29Q      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

Lone  you  are  to-day,  and  dismal,  — 
Joyful  psalms  no  more  are  heard 

Where,  within  your  choir,  her  vesper 
Screeches  the  cat-headed  bird. 

Ivy  from  your  eaves  is  growing, 

Nettles  round  your  green  hearth-stone, 

Foxes  howl,  where,  in  your  corners, 
Dropping  waters  make  their  moan. 

Where  the  lark  to  early  matins 
Used  your  clergy  forth  to  call, 

There  !  alas  no  tongue  is  stirring, 
Save  the  daws'  upon  the  wall. 

Refectory  cold  and  empty, 

Dormitory  bleak  and  bare, 
Where  are  now  your  pious  uses, 

Simple  bed  and  frugal  fare  ? 

Gone  your  abbot,  rule,  and  order, 
Broken  down  your  altar  stones ; 

Naught  se'e  I  beneath  your  shelter 
Save  a  heap  of  clayey  bones. 

Oh  !  the  hardship,  oh  !  the  hatred, 

Tyranny,  and  cruel  war, 
Persecution  and  oppression, 

That  have  left  you  as  you  are  ! 

I  myself  once  also  prospered  ;  — 
Mine  is,  too,  an  altered  plight. 

Trouble,  care,  and  age  have  left  me 
Good  for  naught  but  grief  to-night. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       291 

Gone,  my  motion  and  my  vigor,  — 

Gone,  the  use  of  eye  and  ear ; 
At  my  feet  lie  friends  and  children, 

Powerless  and  corrupting  here. 

Woe  is  written  on  my  visage 

In  a  nut  my  heart  would  lie  — 
Death's  deliverance  were  welcome  — 

Father,  let  the  old  man  die. 


MILD  MABEL  KELLY 

From  the  Irish  of  T.  O'  Carolan. 

WHOEVER  the  youth  who  by  Heaven's  decree 
Has  his  happy  right  hand  'neath  that  bright 
head  of  thine, 
"Tis  certain  that  he 
From  all  sorrow  is  free, 
Till  the  day  of  his  death,  if  a  life  so  divine 
Should  not  raise  him  in  bliss  above  mortal  degree. 
Mild  Mabel  Ni  Kelly,  bright  coolun  of  curls ! 

All  stately  and  pure  as  the  swan  on  the  lake. 
Her  mouth  of  white  teeth  is  a  palace  of  pearls, 

And  the  youth  of  the  land  are  love-sick  for  her  sake. 

No  strain  of  the  sweetest  e'er  heard  in  the  land 

That  she  knows  not  to  sing,  in  a  voice  so  enchanting, 
That  the  cranes  on  the  sand 
Fall  asleep  where  they  stand. 

Oh,  for  her  blooms  the  rose,  and  the  lily  ne'er  wait- 
ing 
To  shed  its  mild  lustre  on  bosom  or  hand. 


292      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

The  dewy  blue  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  spray 
More  blue  than  her  eyes  human  eye  never  saw. 

Deceit  never  lurked  in  its  beautiful  ray. 

Dear  lady,  I  drink  to  you,  slainte  go  bragh  !  * 

To  gaze  on  her  beauty  the  young  hunter  lies 

'Mong  the  branches  that  shadow  her  path  in  the 

grove. 

But  alas,  if  her  eyes 
The  rash  gazer  surprise, 
All  eyesight  departs  from  the  victim  of  love, 
And  the  blind  youth  steals  home  with  his  heart  full  of 

sighs. 
O  pride  of  the  Gael  of  the  lily-white  palm  ! 

O  coolun  of  curls  to  the  grass  at  your  feet ! 
At  the  goal  of  delight  and  of  honor  I  am 
To  boast  such  a  theme  for  a  song  so  unmeet. 


OWEN  BAWN 

This  refers  to  the  rigid  prohibition  of  the  intermarriage  with 
the  native  Irish  by  William  de  Burghs,  Earl  of  Ulster,  in  A.  D. 
!333»  which  led  to  the  Irish  return  from  beyond  the  river  Bawn 
and  the  expulsion  of  the  English  from  all  Ulster. 

MY  Owen  Bawn's  hair  is  of  thread  of  gold  spun ; 
Of  gold  in  the  shadow,  of  light  in  the  sun ; 
All  curled  in  a  coolun  the  bright  tresses  are  — 
They  make  his  head  radiant  with  beams  like  a  star  ! 

My  Owen  Bawn's  mantle  is  long  and  is  wide, 
To  wrap  me  up  safe  from  the  storm  by  his  side : 

1  Slainte  go  bragh,  your  health  forever. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        293 

And  I'd  rather  face  snowdrift,  and  winter-wind  there, 
Than  lie  among  daisies  and  sunshine  elsewhere. 

My  Owen  Bawn  Quinn  is  a  bold  fisherman, 
He  tracks  the  dun  quarry  with  arrow  and  spear  — 
Where  wild  woods  are  waving,  and  deep  waters  flow, 
Oh,  there  goes  my  love  with  the  dun-dappled  roe. 

My  Owen  Bawn  Quinn  is  a  bard  of  the  best, 
He  spears  the  strong  salmon  in  midst  of  the  Bann  ; 
And  rocked  in  the  tempest  on  stormy  Lough  Neagh, 
I  )raws  up  the  red  trout  through  the  bursting  of  spray. 

My  Owen  Bawn  Quinn  is  a  hunter  of  deer, 
He  wakes  me  with  singing,  he  sings  me  to  rest ; 
And  the  cruit1  'neath  his  fingers  rings  up  with  a  sound, 
As  though  angels  harped  o'er  us,  and  fays  underground. 

They  tell  me  the  stranger  has  given  command, 
That  crommeal 2  and  coolun  shall  cease  in  the  land, 
That  all  our  youths'  tresses  of  yellow  be  shoni, 
And  bonnets,  instead,  of  a  new  fashion  worn. 

That  mantles  like  Owen  Bawn's  shield  us  no  more, 
That  hunting  and  fishing  henceforth  we  give  o'er, 
That  the  net  and  the  arrow  aside  must  be  laid, 
For  hammer  and  trowel,  and  mattock  and  spade. 

That  the  echoes  of  music  must  sleep  in  their  caves, 
That  the  slave  must  forget  his  own  tongue  for  a  slave's, 
That  the  sound  of  our  lips  must  be  strange  in  our  ears, 
And  our  bleeding  hands  toil  in  the  dew  of  our  tears. 

1  Cruit,  a  small  harp. 
*  Crommeal,  mustache. 


294      THE  GOLDEN  TKEASURT  OF 

Oh,  sweetheart  and  comfort !  with  thee  by  my  side, 
I  could  love  and  live  happy,  whatever  betide ; 
But  thou,  in  such  bondage,  wouldst  die  ere  a  day  — 
Away  to  Tir-oen,  then,  Owen,  away  1 

There  are  wild  woods  and   mountains,  and   streams 

deep  and  clear, 

There  are  loughs  in  Tir-oen  as  lovely  as  here ; 
There  are  silver  harps  ringing  in  Yellow  Hugh's  hall, 
And  a  bower  by  the  forest  side,  sweetest  of  all ! 

We  will  dwell  by  the  sunshiny  skirts  of  the  brake, 
Where  the  sycamore  shadows  glow  deep  in  the  lake ; 
And  the  snowy  swan  stirring  the  green  shadows  there, 
Afloat  on  the  water,  seems  floating  in  air. 

Away  to  Tir-oen,  then,  Owen,  away  ! 
We  will  leave  them  the  dust  from  our  feet  for  a  prey, 
And  our  dwelling  in  ashes  and  flames  for  a  spoil  — 
'Twill  be  long  ere  they  quench  them  with  streams  of 
the  Foyle ! 


PASTHEEN  FION 

From  the  Irish. 

OH,  my  fair  Pastheen  is  my  heart's  delight ; 
Her  gay  heart  laughs  in  her  blue  eye  bright ; 
Like  the  apple  blossom  her  bosom  white, 
And  her  neck  like  the  swan's  on  a  March  morn  bright ! 

Then,  Oro,  come  with  me  !    come  with  me  !    come 

with  me  ! 
Oro,  come  with  me  !  brown  girl,  sweet ! 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       295 

And  oh  !  I  would  go  through  snow  and  sleet 

If  you  would  come  with  me,  my  brown  girl,  sweet ! 


Love  of  my  heart,  my  fair  Pastheen  ! 

Her  cheeks  are  as  red  as  the  rose's  sheen, 

But  my  lips  have  tasted  no  more,  I  ween, 

Than  the  glass  I  drank  to  the  health  of  my  queen  ! 

Then,  Oro,  come  with  me  !  come  with  me  !  etc. 


Were  I  in  the  town,  where's  mirth  and  glee, 
Or  'twixt  two  barrels  of  barley  bree, 
With  my  fair  Pastheen  upon  my  knee, 
'Tis  I  would  drink  to  her  pleasantly  ! 

Then,  Oro,  come  with  me  !  come  with  me  !  etc. 


Nine  nights  I  lay  in  longing  and  pain, 
Betwixt  two  bushes,  beneath  the  rain, 
Thinking  to  see  you,  love,  once  again ; 
But  whistle  and  call  were  all  in  vain  1 

Then,  Oro,  come  with  me  !  come  with  me  !  etc. 


I'll  leave  my  people,  both  friend  and  foe; 
From  all  the  girls  in  the  world  I'll  go ; 
But  from  you,  sweetheart,  oh,  never  !  oh,  no  ! 
Till  I  lie  in  the  coffin  stretched,  cold  and  low  ! 

Then,  Oro,  come  with  me !  come  with  me  !  etc. 


296      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 
THE  COOLUN1 

Translated  from  the  Irish  of  Maurice  Dugan  or  O'  Dugan. 

OH  AD  you  seen  the  Coolun, 
Walking  down  by  the  cuckoo's  street, 
With  the  dew  of  the  meadow  shining 
On  her  milk-white  twinkling  feet. 
O  my  love  she  is,  and  my  cailin  og^ 

And  she  dwells  in  Bal'nagar; 
And  she  bears  the  palm  of  beauty  bright, 
From  the  fairest  that  in  Erin  are. 


In  Bal'nagar  is  the  Coolun, 

Like  the  berry  on  the  bough  her  cheek  ; 
Bright  beauty  dwells  forever 

On  her  fair  neck  and  ringlets  sleek ; 
O  sweeter  is  her  mouth's  soft  music 

Than  the  lark  or  thrush  at  dawn, 
Or  the  blackbird  in  the  greenwood  singing 

Farewell  to  the  setting  sun. 


Rise  up,  my  boy  !  make  ready 

My  horse,  for  I  forth  would  ride, 
To  follow  the  modest  damsel, 

Where  she  walks  on  the  green  hillside : 
For  e'er  since  our  youth  were  we  plighted. 

In  faith,  troth,  and  wedlock  true  — 
O  she's  sweeter  to  me  nine  times  over, 

Than  organ  or  cuckoo  ! 

1  Anchuil-fhionn,  maiden  of  fair  flowing  locks 

2  Cailin  og,  young  girl. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LTRICS       297 

O  ever  since  my  childhood 

I  loved  the  fair  and  darling  child ; 
But  our  people  came  between  us, 

And  with  lucre  our  pure  love  defiled  : 
O  my  woe  it  is,  and  my  bitter  pain, 

And  I  weep  it  night  and  day, 
That  the  cailin  ban  of  my  early  love 

Is  torn  from  my  heart  away. 

Sweetheart  and  faithful  treasure, 

Be  constant  still,  and  true ; 
Nor  for  want  of  herds  and  houses 

Leave  one  who  would  ne'er  leave  you. 
I'll  pledge  you  the -blessed  Bible, 

Without  an  eke  within, 
That  the  faithful  God  will  provide  for  us, 

Without  thanks  to  kith  or  kin. 

O  love,  do  you  remember 

When  we  lay  all  night  alone, 
Beneath  the  ash  in  the  winter  storm, 

When  the  oak  wood  round  did  groan  ? 
No  shelter  then  from  the  blast  had  we, 

The  bitter  blast  or  sleet, 
But  your  gown  to  wrap  about  our  heads; 

And  my  coat  around  our  feet. 


298      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURT  OF 
THE  FAIR  HILLS  OF  IRELAND 

From  the  Irish. 

A  very  close  translation,  in  the  original  meler,  of  an  Irish 
song  of  unknown  authorship  dating  from  the  end  of  the  seven- 
teenth century.  The  refrain  means  "  O  sad  lament." 

A  PLENTEOUS  place  is  Ireland  for  hospitable 
cheer, 
Uileacdn  dubh  O  ! 

Where  the  wholesome  fruit  is  bursting  from  the  yellow 
barley  ear,  « 

Uileacdn  dubh  O  ! 

There  is  honey  in  the  trees  where  her  misty  vales  ex- 
pand, 
And  her  forest  paths  in  summer  are  by  falling  waters 

fanned  ; 

There  is  dew  at  high  noontide  there,  and  springs  i1  the 
yellow  sand 

On  the  fair  hills  of  holy  Ireland. 

Curled  he  is  and  ringleted,  and  plaited  to  the  knee, 

Uileacdn  dubh  O  ! 
Each  captain  who  comes  sailing  across  the  Irish  Sea, 

Uileacdn  dubh  O  ! 
And  I  will  make  my  journey,  if  life  and  health  but 

stand, 
Unto  that  pleasant  country,  that  fresh  and  fragrant 

strand, 

And  leave  your  boasted  braveries,  your  wealth  and 
high  command, 

For  the  fair  hills  of  holy  Ireland. 

Large  and  profitable  are  the  stacks  upon  the  ground, 
Uileacdn  dubh  O  ! 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       299 

The  butter  and  the  cream  do  wondrously  abound, 

Uileacan  dubh  O  ! 

The  cresses  on  the  water  and  the  sorrels  are  at  hand, 
And  the  cuckoo's  calling  daily  his  note  of  music  bland, 
And  the  bold  thrush  sings  so  bravely  his  song  i'  the 
forests  grand 

On  the  fair  hills  of  holy  Ireland. 


THE  FAIRY  THORN 

An  Ulster  ballad. 

"  /^"^ET  up,  our  Anna  dear,  from  the  weary  spin- 
1    ~r          ning  wheel ; 

For   your   father's  on   the   hill,  and  your 

mother  is  asleep : 

Come  up  above  the  crags,  and  we'll  dance  a  highland 
reel 

Around  the  fairy  thorn  on  the  steep." 

At  Anna  Grace's  door  'twas  thus  the  maidens  cried, 
Three  merry  maidens  fair  in  kirtles  of  the  green  ; 
And  Anna  laid  the  rock  and  the  weary  wheel  aside, 
The  fairest  of  the  four,  I  ween. 

They're  glancing  through  the  glimmer  of  the  quiet  eve, 

Away  in  milky  wavings  of  neck  and  ankle  bare ; 
The  heavy  sliding  stream  in  its  sleepy  song  they  leave, 
And  the  crags  in  the  ghostly  air ; 

And  linking  hand  in  hand  and  singing  as  they  go, 
The  maids  along  the  hillside  have  ta'en  their  fear 
less  way, 


300      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURr  OF 

Till  they  come  to  where  the  rowan-trees  in  lonely 
beauty  grow, 

Beside  the  Fairy  Hawthorn  gray. 

The  Hawthorn  stands  between  the  ashes  tall  and  slim, 
Like  matron  with  her  twin  granddaughters  on  her 

knee ; 

The  rowan-berries  cluster  o'er  her  low  head  gray  and 
dim 

In  ruddy  kisses  sweet  to  see. 

The  merry  maidens  four  have  ranged  them  in  a  row, 
Between  each  lovely  couple  a  stately  rowan  stem, 
And  away  in  mazes  wavy,  like  skimming  birds  they 
go,— 

O  never  carolled  bird  like  them  ! 


But  solemn  is  the  silence  of  the  silvery  haze 

That  drinks  away  their  voices  in  echoless  repose, 
And  dreamily  the  evening  has  stilled  the  haunted  braes, 
And  dreamier  the  gloaming  grows. 

And  sinking  one  by  one,  like  lark  notes  from  the  sky 
When  the  falcon's  shadow  saileth  across  the  open 

shaw, 

Are  hushed  the  maidens'  voices,   as  cowering  down 
they  lie 

In  the  flutter  of  their  sudden  awe. 

For  from  the  air  above  and  the  grassy  ground  beneath, 
And  from  the  mountain-ashes  and  the  old  white- 
thorn between, 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LTRICS       301 

A  power  of  faint  enchantment  doth  through  their  be- 
ings breathe, 

And  they  sink  down  together  on  the  green. 

They  sink  together  silent,  and,  stealing  side  by  side, 
They  fling  their  lovely  arms  o'er   their  drooping 

necks  so  fair, 

Then  vainly  strive  again  their  naked  arms  to  hide, 
For  their  shrinking  necks  again  are  bare. 

Thus  clasped  and  prostrate  all,  with  their  heads  to- 
gether bowed, 
Soft  o'er  their  bosoms'  beating — the  only  human 

sound  — 

They  hear  the  silky  footsteps  of  the  silent  fairy  crowd, 
Like  a  river  in  the  air,  gliding  round. 

No  scream  can  any  raise,  no  prayer  can  any  say, 

But  wild,  wild  the  terror  of  the  speechless  three,  — 
For  they  feel  fair  Anna  Grace  drawn  silently  away, 
By  whom  they  dare  not  look  to  see. 

They  feel  thei»  tresses  twine  with  her  parting  locks  of 

gold, 

And  the  curls  elastic  falling  as  her  head  withdraws ; 
They  feel  her  sliding  arms  from  their  tranced  arms 
unfold, 

But  they  may  not  look  to  see  the  cause. 

For  heavy  on  their  senses  the  faint  enchantment  lies 
Through   all   that   night  of  anguish  and   perilous 
amaze ; 


302      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURr  OF 

And  neither  fear  nor  wonder  can  ope  their  quivering 
eyes, 

Or  their  limbs  from  the  cold  ground  raise, 

Till  out  of  night  the  earth  has  rolled  her  dewy  side, 
With  every  haunted   mountain  and    streamy  vale 

below  j 

When,  as  the  mist  dissolves  in  the   yellow  morning 
tide, 

The  maidens'  trance  dissolveth  so. 

Then  fly  the  ghastly  three  as  swiftly  as  they  may, 
And  tell  their  tale  of  sorrow  to  anxious  friends  in 

vain, — 

They  pined  away  and  died  within  the  year  and  day, 
And  ne'er  was  Anna  Grace  seen  again. 


THE  FAIRY  WELL  OF  LAGNANAY 

MOURNFULLY,  sing  mournfully !  - 
"  O  listen,  Ellen,  sister  dear  ! 
Is  there  no  help  at  all  for  me, 
But  only  ceaseless  sigh  and  tear? 
Why  did  not  he,  who  left  me  here, 
With  stolen  hope  steal  memory? 
O  listen,  Ellen,  sister  dear  ! 
(Mournfully,  sing  mournfully!) 
I'll  go  away  to  Sleamish  hill 
I'll  pluck  the  fairy  hawthorn-tree, 
And  let  the  spirits  work  their  will ; 
I  care  not  if  for  good  or  ill, 
So  they  but  lay  the  memory 

Which  all  my  heart  is  haunting  still. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       303 

(Mournfully,  sing  mournfully  !) 

The  Fairies  are  a  silent  race, 
And  pale  as  lily  flowers  to  see ; 

I  care  not  for  a  blanched  face, 

Nor  wandering  in  a  dreaming  place, 
So  I  but  banish  memory,  — 

I  wish  I  were  with  Anna  Grace. 
(Mournfully,  sing  mournfully  !) 

"  Hearken  to  my  tale  of  woe  !  "  — 

'Twas  thus  to  weeping  Ellen  Con, 
Her  sister  said  in  accents  low, 

Her  only  sister,  Una  bawn  ; 

'Twas  in  their  bed  before  the  dawn, 
And  Ellen  answered,  sad  and  slow, 

"  O  Una,  Una,  be  not  drawn 
(Hearken  to  my  tale  of  woe  !) 

To  this  unholy  grief  I  pray, 
Which  makes  me  sick  at  heart  to  know, 

And  I  will  help  you  if  I  may  5 

—  The  Fairy  Well  of  Lagnanay  — 
Lie  nearer  me,  I  tremble  so,  — 

Una,  I've  heard  wise  women  say 
(Hearken  to  my  tale  of  woe  !) 

That  if  before  the  dews  arise 
True  maiden  in  its  icy  flow 

With  pure  hand  bathe  her  bosom  thrice, 

Three  lady  brackens  pluck  likewise, 
And  three  times  round  the  fountain  go, 

She  straight  forgets  her  tears  and  sighs." 
(Hearken  to  my  tale  of  woe  !) 

All,  alas  !  and  well  away! 
"  O  sister  Ellen,  sister  sweet, 


-504      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

Come  with  me  to  the  hill  I  pray, 

And  I  will  prove  that  blessed  freet." 

They  rose  with  soft  and  silent  feet, 
They  left  their  mother  where  she  lay 

Their  mother  and  her  care  discreet, 
(All,  alas  !  and  well  away  ! ) 

And  soon  they  reached  the  Fairy  Well, 
The  mountain's  eye,  clear,  cold,  and  gray, 

Wide  open  in  the  dreary  fell ; 

How  long  they  stood  'twere  vain  to  tell. 
At  last  upon  the  point  of  day, 

Bawn  Una  bares  her  bosom's  swell, 
(All,  alas !  and  well  away  !) 

Thrice  o'er  her  shrinking  breast  she  laves 
The  gliding  glance  that  will  not  stay 

Of  subtly-streaming  fairy  waves ; 

And  now  the  charmed  three  brackens  craves 
She  plucks  them  in  their  fringed  array; 

Now  round  the  well  her  fate  she  braves. 
(All,  alas  !  and  well  away  !) 

Save  us  all  from  Fairy  thrall ; 

Ellen  sees  her  face — the  rim  — 
Twice  and  thrice  and  that  is  all, 

Fount  and  hill  and  maiden  swim, 

All  together  melting  dim  ! 
"Una,  Una,"  thou  may'st  call, 

Sister  sad,  but  lith  or  limb 
(Save  us  all  from  Fairy  thrall) 

Never  again  of  Una  bawn 
Where  now  she  walks  in  dreamy  hall 

Shall  eye  of  mortal  look  upon  ; 

O  can  it  be  the  guard  was  gone, 
That  better  guard  than  shield  or  \vall  ? 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LTRICS       305 

Who  knows  on  earth  save  Jurlaugh  Daune  ? 
(Save  us  all  from  Fairy  thrall. 

Behold  the  banks  are  green  and  bare, 
No  pit  is  here  wherein  to  fall; 

Ay,  at  the  fount  you  well  may  stare, 

But  naught  save  pebbles  smooth  is  there, 
And  small  straws  twirling,  one  and  all. 

Hie  thee  home,  and  be  thy  prayer, 
Save  us  all  from  Fairy  thrall ! 


THE  FORGING  OF  THE  ANCHOR 

COME,  see  the  Dolphin's  anchor  forged ;  'tis  at  a 
white  heat  now : 
The  bellows  ceased,  the  flames  decreased  ;   tho' 

on  the  forge's  brow 

The  little  flames  still  fitfully  play  thro'  the  sable  mound  ; 
And  fitfully  you  still  may  see  the  grim  smiths  ranking 

round, 
All  clad  in  leathern  panoply,  their  broad  hands  only 

bare; 

Some  rest  upon  their  sledges  here,  some  work  the 
windlass  there. 

The  windlass  strains  the  tackle  chains,  the  black  mound 

heaves  below ; 
And  red  and  deep,  a  hundred  veins  burst  out  at  every 

throe : 
It  rises,  roars,  rends  all  outright — O  Vulcan,  what  a 

glow  ! 
'Tis  blinding  white,  'tis  blasting  bright ;  the  high  sun 

shines  not  so ! 


306      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 

The  high  sun  sees  not,  on  the  earth,  such  fiery  fearful 

show; 
The  roof  ribs  swarth,  the  candent  hearth,  the  ruddy 

lurid  row 
Of  smiths  that  stand,  an  ardent  band,  like  men  before 

the  foe ; 
As,  quivering  thro'   his  fleece  of  flame,   the  sailing 

monster,  slow 

Sinks  on  the  anvil — all  about,  the  faces  fiery  glow  — 
"  Hurrah  !  "  they  shout,  "leap  out — leap  out;  "  bang, 

bang,  the  sledges  go : 
Hurrah  !  the  jetted  lightnings  are  hissing   high  and 

low; 
A  hailing  fount  of  fire  is  struck  at  every  squashing 

blow; 

The  leathern  mail  rebounds  the  hail ;  the  rattling  cin- 
ders strow 
The  ground  around;  at  every  bound  the  sweltering 

fountains  flow, 
And  thick  and  loud  the  swinking  crowd  at  every  stroke 

pant  "ho  !" 


Leap  out,  leap  out,  my  masters  ;  leap  out  and  lay  on 

load  ! 

Let's  forge  a  goodly  anchor — a  bower  thick  and  broad ; 
For  a  heart  of  oak  is  hanging  on  every  blow,  I  bode; 
And  I  see  the  good  ship  riding,  all  in  a  perilous  road  — 
The  low  reef  roaring  on  her  lee — the  roll  of  ocean 

poured 
From  stem  to  stern,  sea  after  sea ;  the  mainmast  by 

the  board ; 
The  bulwarks  down,  the  rudder  gone,  the  boats  stove 

at  the  chains  ! 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       307 

But  courage  still,  brave  mariners — the  Bower  yet  re- 
mains, 

And  not  an  inch  to  flinch  he  deigns,  save  when  ye 
pitch  sky  high, 

Then  moves  his  head,  as  tho'  he  said,  "  Fear  nothing 
—here  am  I !  " 


Swing  in  your  strokes  in  order,  let  foot  and  hand  keep 

time; 
Your  blows  make  music  sweeter  far  than  any  steeple's 

chime ; 
But,  while  ye  sling  your  sledges,  sing — and   let  the 

burden  be, 
The  anchor  is  the  anvil  king,  and  royal  craftsmen  we ! 


Strike  in,  strike  in — the  sparks  begin  to  dull  their 

rustling  red ; 
Our   hammers  ring  with  sharper  din,  our  work  will 

soon  be  sped ; 
Our  anchor  soon   must  change  its  bed  of  fiery  rich 

array, 
For  a  hammock  at  the  roaring  bows,  or  an  oozy  couch 

of  clay ; 

Our  anchor  soon  must  change  the  lay  of  merry  crafts- 
men here, 
For  the  yeo-heave-o1,  and  the  heave-away,  and  the 

sighing  seaman's  cheer ; 
When,  weighing  slow  at  eve  they  go — far,  far  from 

love  and  home ; 
And  sobbing  sweethearts,  in  a  row,  wail  o'er  the  ocean 

foam. 


308      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

In  livid  and  obdurate  gloom  he  darkens  down  at  last ; 
A  shapely  one  he  is,  and  strong,  as  e'er  from  cat  was 

cast. — 
O  trusted  and  trustworthy  guard,  if  thou  hadst  life 

like  me, 
What  pleasures  would  thy  toils  reward   beneath  the 

deep  green  sea ! 
O  deep-sea  Diver,  who  might  then  behold  such  sights 

as  thou  ? 
The  hoary-monster's  palaces  !  methinks  what  joy  'twere 

now 
To  go  plumb  plunging  down  amid  the  assembly  of  the 

whales, 
And  feel  the  churned  sea  round  me  boil  beneath  their 

scourging  tails ! 

Then  deep  in  tangle-woods  to  fight  the  fierce  sea  uni- 
corn, 
And  send  him  foiled  and  bellowing  back,  for  all  his 

ivory  horn ; 

To  leave  the  subtle  sworder-fish  of  bony  blade  forlorn ; 
And  for  the  ghastly  grinning  shark  to  laugh  his  jaws 

to  scorn  :  — 

To  leap  down  on  the  kraken's  back,  where  'mid  Nor- 
wegian isles 

He  lies,  a  lubber  anchorage  for  sudden  shallowed  miles, 
Till,  snorting,  like  an  under-sea  volcano,  off  he  rolls; 
Meanwhile  to  swing,  a-buffeting  the   far  astonished 

shoals 

Of  his  back -browsing  ocean-calves ;  or,  haply  in  a  cove, 
Shell-strewn,  and  consecrate  of  old  to  some  Undin6 

love, 
To  find  the  long-haired  mermaidens ;  or,  hard-by  icy 

lands, 
To  wrestle  with  the  sea-serpent,  upon  cerulean  sands. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       309 

O  broad-armed  Fisher  of  the  deep,  whose  sports  can 

equal  thine  ? 
The  Dolphin  weighs  a  thousand  tons,  that  tugs  thy 

cable  line ; 
And  night  by  night  'tis  thy  delight,  thy  glory  day  by 

day, 
Through  sable  sea  and  breaker  white,  the  giant  game 

to  play  — 
But  shamer  of  our  little  sports !  forgive  the  name  I 

gave  — 
A  fisher's  joy  is  to  destroy — thine  office  is  to  save. 


O  lodger  in  the  sea-king's  halls,  couldst  thou  but  un- 
derstand 

Whose  be  the  white  bones  by  thy  side,  or  who  that 
dripping  band, 

Slow  swaying  in  the  heaving  wave,  that  round  about 
thee  bend, 

With  sounds  like  breakers  in  a  dream  blessing  their 
ancient  friend  — 

Oh,  couldst  thou  know  what  heroes  glide  with  larger 
steps  round  thee, 

Thine  iron  side  would  swell  with  pride ;  thou'dst  leap 
within  the  sea ! 


Give  honor  to  their  memories  who  left  the  pleasant 
strand, 

To  shed  their  blood  so  freely  for  the  love  of  Father- 
land — 

Who  left  their  chance  of  quiet  age  and  grassy  church- 
yard grave, 

So  freely,  for  a  restless  bed  amid  the  tossing  wave  — 


3io      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

Oh,  though  our  anchor  may  not  be  all  I  have  fondly 

sung, 
Honor  him  for  their  memory,  whose  bones  he  goes 

among ! 


THE  LAPFUL  OF  NUTS 

WHENE'ER  I  see  soft  hazel  eyes, 
And  nut-brown  curls, 
I  think  of  those  bright  days  I  spent 
Among  the  Limerick  girls ; 
When  up  through  Gratia  woods  I  went 

Nutting  with  thee; 

And  we  plucked  the  glossy,  clustering  fruit 
From  many  a  bending  tree. 

Beneath  the  hazel  boughs  we  sat, 

Thou,  love,  and  I, 
And  the  gathered  nuts  lay  in  thy  lap, 

Below  thy  downcast  eye. 
But  little  we  thought  of  the  store  we'd  won, 

I,  love,  or  thou, 
For  our  hearts  were  full,  and  we  dare  not  own 

The  love  that's  spoken  now. 

O  there's  wars  for  willing  hearts  in  Spain, 

And  high  Germanic  ! 
And  I'll  come  back,  if  I  ever  come  back, 

With  knightly  fame  and  fee, 
And  I'll  come  back,  if  I  ever  come  back, 

Faithful  to  thee, 
That  sat,  with  thy  white  lap  full  of  nuts, 

Beneath  the  hazel-tree. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       311 


MAURICE  FITZGERALD 
(Living) 

MOONLIGHT  ON  NEW  YORK  BAY 

OH,  say  is  that  beautiful  moon  that  I  see 
Serenely  adorning  the  Heavens  above, 
Whose  beams  are  refulgently  shining  on  me, 
Is  it  shining  as  bright  on  the  land  that  I  love? 
The  land  where  I  first  saw  the  moon's  silver  light, 

The  land  that  I  cherish  wherever  I  stray  — 
Oh,  say,  is  that  moon  shining  brightly  to-night 
On  the  green  hills  of  Ireland,  away,  far  away  ? 

How  calm  and  how  placid  the  ocean  appears  — 

See,  the  moon  and  the  stars  are  reflected  below. 
The  reflection  brings  back  like  a  flash  through  the 
years 

The  dreams  of  my  boyhood,  the  days  long  ago ; 
The  days  when  I  fancied  that  everything  bright 

Was  lasting  and  real, — how  delusive  were  they  ! 
Oh,  beautiful  Moon  !  art  thou  shining  to-night 

On  the  green  hills  of  Ireland,  away,  far  away  ? 

Oh,  beautiful  Moon  !  if  thou'rt  shining  as  well 
On  that  green  little  island  away  o'er  the  sea, 

To  the  dear  cherished  friends  who  in  Ireland  dwell 
With  friendship  and  love  bear  a  token  from  me. 

For  oh,  were  I  clasped  in  Death's  cold  hand  to-night, 


312      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

Even  there  with  the  last  breath  these  fond  words  I'd 

say: 

"  Oh,  beautiful  Moon,  shine  peaceful  and  bright 
On  the  green  hills  of  Ireland,  away,  far  away  !  " 


TO  DOUGLAS  HYDE 

FROM  the  banks  of  Androscoggin, 
Where  the  pine  is  bending  o'er, 
To  the  farthest  headland  marking 

California's  fertile  shore ; 
From  the  boundless  plains  of  Texas 

No  Niagara's  foaming  tide, 
With  a  hundred  thousand  welcomes 
Exiles  greet  you,  Douglas  Hyde. 

Long  we've  listened  to  the  pleading 

Of  the  men  who  failed  to  show 
How  their  words  alone  could  purchase 

Freedom  from  a  heartless  foe ; 
Meekly  craving  for  the  justice 

Always  thwarted,  long  denied  — 
Thank  the  Lord  that  heaven  sent  us 

Men  like  you,  our  Douglas  Hyde. 

You,  who  knew  of  Erin's  glory, 

You,  who  saw  her  latent  power, 
You,  who  searched  the  mountain  craggy, 

Wooded  glen  and  leafy  bower 
For  the  relics  of  her  genius 

And  the  tokens  of  her  pride ; 
You,  who  wove  a  native  garland, 

You,  who  crowned  her,  Douglas  Hyde  ! 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       313 

Now  the  dismal  clouds  are  drifting 

And  the  star  of  hope  appears, 
Lighting  Erin's  road  to  freedom 

After  all  the  weary  years  ; 
Now  the  olden  tongue  is  spoken, 

And  across  the  ocean  wide 
You  are  bringing  news  to  cheer  us 

From  the  old  land,  Douglas  Hyde. 

From  the  banks  of  Androscoggin, 

Where  the  pine  is  bending  o'er, 
To  the  farthest  headland  marking 

California's  fertile  shore ; 
From  the  boundless  plains  of  Texas 

To  Niagara's  foaming  tide, 
Hear  the  shout  and  hear  the  greeting  — 

"  Welcome,  welcome,  Douglas  Hyde ! " 


314      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURr  OF 


ELLEN  FITZSIMON 

(1805-1883) 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  IRISH  EMIGRANT  IN 
AMERICA 

OR  THE  WOODS  OF  CAILLINO 

MY  heart  is  heavy  in  my  breast,  my  ears  are  full 
of  tears, 
My  memory  is  wandering  back  to  long  de- 
parted years, — 

To  those  bright  days  long,  long  ago, 
When  naught  I  dreamed  of  sordid  care  or  worldly  woe, 
But  roamed,   a  gay,   light-hearted  boy,  the  woods  of 
Caillino. 


There,  in  the  spring-time  of  my  life  and  spring-time 

of  the  year, 
I've  watched  the  snowdrop  start  from  earth,  the  first 

young  buds  appear, 

The  sparkling  stream  o'er  pebbles  flow, 
The  modest  violet  and  golden  primrose  grow, 
Within  thy  deep  and  mossy  dells,  beloved  Caillino. 

'Twas  there  I  wooed  my  Mary  Dhuv  and  won  her  for 

my  bride, 
Who  bore  me  three  fair  daughters  and  four  sons,  my 

age's  pride ; 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       315 

Though  cruel  fortune  was  our  foe, 
And  steeped  us  to  the  lips  in  bitter  want  and  woe, 
Yet  cling  our  hearts  to  those  sad  days  we  passed  near 
Caillino. 

At  length,  by  misery  bowed  to  earth,  we  left  our  native 

strand, 
And  crossed  the  wide  Atlantic  to  this  free  and  happy 

land  ; 

Though  toils  we  had  to  undergo, 
Yet  soon  content  and  happy  peace  'twas  ours  to  know, 
And  plenty  such  as  never  blessed  our  hearts,   near 

Caillino. 

And  Heaven  a  blessing  has  bestowed  more  precious  far 

than  wealth, 
Has  spared  us  to  each  other,  full  of  years,  yet  strong 

in  health  ; 

Across  the  threshold  when  we  go, 
We  see  our  children's  children  round  us  grow, 
Like    sapling    oaks   within    thy   woods,    far   distant 
Caillino. 

Yet  sadness  clouds  our  hearts  to  think  that,  when  we 

are  no  more, 
Our   bones   must   find   a  resting  place  far,  far  from 

Erin's  shore ; 

For  us,  no  funeral,  sad  and  slow, 
Within  the  ancient  abbey's  burial  mound  will  go, — 
No,  we  must  slumber  far  from  home,  far,  far  from 

Caillino. 

Yet,  O  if  spirits  e'er  can  leave  the  appointed  place  of 
rest, 


316      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

Once  more  will  I  revisit  thee,  dear  Isle  that  I  love 

best! 

O'er  thy  green  vales  will  hover  slow, 
And  many  a  tearful  parting  blessing  will  bestow 
On  all, — but  most  of  all,  on  thee,  beloved  Caillino  1 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       317 


RICHARD  FLECKNOE 
(        -1678) 

OF  DRINKING 

THE  fountains  drink  caves  subterrene, 
The  rivulets  drink  the  fountains  dry ; 
Brooks  drink  those  rivulets  again, 
And  them  some  river  gliding  by  ; 
Until  some  gulping  sea  drink  them, 
And  ocean  drinks  up  that  again. 

Of  ocean  then  does  drink  the  sky  ; 

When  having  brewed  it  into  rain, 
The  earth  with  drink  it  does  supply, 

And  plants  to  drink  up  that  again. 
When  turned  to  liquor  in  the  vine, 
'Tis  our  turn  next  to  drink  the  wine. 

By  this  who  does  not  plainly  see, 

How  into  our  throats  at  once  is  hurled  — 

Whilst  merrily  we  drinking  be  — 
The  quintessence  of  all  the  world  ? 

Whilst  all  drink  then  in  land,  air,  sea, 

Let  us  too  drink  as  well  as  they. 


318      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURr  OF 


J.  L.  FORREST 

(Living) 

i 

THE  BANSHEE'S  SONG 

"  y^V 'ER  the  wild  heath  I  roam, 
1      1  On  the  night  wind  I  come ; 

And  Beauty  shall  pale 
At  the  voice  of  my  wail ! 

Husk  !  hark  to  my  tidings  of  gloom  and  of  sorrow  ! 
Go,    weep    tears    of    blood,    for — Och!   d'eag   an 
chorra  / 

"  With  the  stranger  the  brave 

Hath  now  found  him  a  grave ; 

And  in  beauty  and  bloom 

He  hath  sunk  to  the  tomb  ! 

Oh,  never  for  Desmond  shall  beam  forth  a  morrow ; 

For  in  death  cold  he  lies — Och  !  d'eag  an  chorra  ! 

"  Woe,  woe,  wild  and  deep  ! 
Wake,  fair  one,  and  weep ! 
Wail,  wail,  wail,  wildly  wail 
At  the  voice  of  my  tale  I 

Go,  go  !  henceforth  life  is  a  burden  and  sorrow  ! 
For   thy  heart's  pulse  is  stricken — Och  !  d'cag  an 
chorra  /" 

Shrieking  the  Phantom  fled.     I  came  and  found 
The  maiden  lying  lifeless  on  the  ground. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       319 

Long,  long  she  lay  insensible.     At  length 
Some  feeble  symptoms  of  returning  strength 
Were  manifest,  and  she  could  faintly  tell 
What  on  that  sad  and  weary  night  befell. 
'Twas  vain  to  reason  with  her.     She  would  hear 
No  reason  from  me.     Still  the  ready  tear 
Would  follow  the  sad  story,  and  her  cheek 
Grow  pallid  at  the  thought  of  that  unearthly  shriek. 

A  month  elaps'd — and  then,  alas  !  we  knew 
That  the  dread  vision  was  too  sadly  true, 
She  smiled  again  no  more;  but  from  that  hour 
Wither'd  and  droop'd  like  to  a  blighted  flower. 
Hourly  she  wasted  :  yet  her  cheek  grew  bright 
With  a  deep  crimson  circle  and  a  light 
Unearthly  sparkled  in  her  beaming  eyes. 
Fondly  I  hoped — alas  !     I  was  unwise 
To  dream  the  beauty  of  that  crimson  blush, 
Was   aught   but  what  it  was,  Consumption's  hectic 
flush. 

She  died — and  oh,  my  grief  was  deep  and  wild  — 

I  grieved — for  dark-hair "d  ELLEN  was  my  child  ! 

In  yon  lone  glen  they  buried  her,  and  there 

Oft  do  I  go  alone  to  breathe  a  prayer 

For  her  departed  spirit.     It  may  be 

SJie  hears  and  blesses  me.     'Twere  agony 

To  think  it  otherwise.     When  the  moon's  light, 

Her  lowly  grave  doth  rest  upon,  and  bright 

Its  rays  gleam  over  it,  then  doth  it  seem 
As  if  her  spirit  hover'd  in  that  beam, 
And  smiled  in  peace  upon  me.     Deem  ye  not 
My  words  unhallow'd.     'Tis  a  blessed  thought 


320      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

Which  fondly  I  have  cherish'd.     I  have  clung 

To  this  bright  hope  since  first  my  heart  was  wrung 

Under  my  sad  bereavement.     Soon,  ah  !  soon, 

(And  I  would  crave  it  as  a  blessed  boon  !) 

My  bones  shall  rest  with  hers,  my  spirit  soar 

To  meet  my  dark-hair 'd  child  upon  a  happier  shore ! 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       321 


ELLEN  FORRESTER 

(1828-1883) 

THE  WIDOW'S  MESSAGE  TO  HER  SON 

EMEMBER,  Denis,  all  I  bade  you  say ; 

Tell  him  we're  well  and  happy,  thank  the 

Lord; 

But  of  our  troubles,  since  he  went  away, 
You'll  mind,  avick,  and  never  say  a  word  ! 

Of  cares  and  troubles,  sure,  we've  all  our  share ; 
The  finest  summer  isn't  always  fair. 

"Tell  him  the  spotted  heifer  calved  in  May; 

She  died,  poor  thing  ;  but  that  you  needn't  mind ; 
Nor  how  the  constant  rain  destroyed  the  hay  ; 
But  tell  him  God  to  us  was  ever  kind  ; 

And  when  the  fever  spread  the  country  o'er, 
His  mercy  kept  the  '  sickness  '  from  our  door. 

"  Be  sure  you  tell  him  how  the  neighbors  came 
And  cut  the  corn ;  and  stored  it  in  the  barn ; 
'Twould  be  as  well  to  mention  them  by  name  — 
Pat  Murphy,  Ned  M'Cabe,  and  James  M'Carn, 
And  big  Tim  Daly  from  behind  the  hill ; 
But  say  agra  ' — O  say  I  miss  him  still ! 

lAgradA,  Olove! 


322      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OP 

"  They  came  with  ready  hands  our  toil  to  share  — 
'Twas   then    I   missed    him   most — my  own  right 

hand ; 

I  felt,  although  kind  hearts  were  round  me  there, 
The  kindest  heart  beat  in  a  foreign  land. 

Strong  hand  !  brave  heart !  O  severed  far  from 

me 
By  many  a  weary  league  of  shore  and  sea ! 

"  And  tell  him  she  was  with  us — he'll  know  who : 

Mavourneen*  hasn't  she  the  winsome  eyes? 
The  darkest,  deepest,  brightest,  bonniest  blue, 
I  ever  saw  except  in  summer  skies. 

And  such  black  hair  !  it  is  the  blackest  hair 
That  ever  rippled  over  neck  so  fair. 


"  Tell  him  old  Pincher  fretted  many  a  day 

And  moped,  poor  dog,  'twas  well  he  didn't  die; 
Crouched  by  the  roadside,  how  he  watched  the  way, 
And  sniffed  the  travelers  as  they  passed  him  by  — 
Hail,  rain,  or  sunshine,  sure  'twas  all  the  same, 
He  listened  for  the  foot  that  never  came. 


"  Tell  him  the  house  is  lonesome-like,  and  cold, 
The  fire  itself  seems  robbed  of  half  its  light ; 
But  maybe  'tis  my  eyes  are  growing  old, 

And  things  look  dim  before  my  failing  sight : 
For  all  that,  tell  him  'twas  myself  that  spun 
The  shirts  you  bring,  and  stitched  them  every 
one. 

1  Mo-mhuirnln,  my  darling. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS 


323 


"Give  him  my  blessing,  morning,  noon,  and  night; 

Tell  him  my  prayers  are  offered  for  his  good, 
That  he  may  keep  his  Maker  still  in  sight, 
And  firmly  stand,  as  his  brave  father  stood, 
True  to  his  name,  his  country,  and  his  God, 
Faithful  at  home,  and  steadfast  still  abroad." 


324      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURr  OF 


GEORGE  FOX 

(Unknown} 

THE  COUNTY  OF  MAYO 

From  the  Irish  of  Thomas  Flavell 
\ 

ON  the  deck  of  Patrick  Lynch's  boat  I  sat  in 
woful  plight, 
Through  my  sighing  all  the  weary  day  and 

weeping  all  the  night. 
Were  it  not  that  full  of  sorrow  from  my  people  forth  I 

go, 

By  the  blessed  sun,  'tis  royally  I'd  sing  thy  praise, 
Mayo. 

When  I  dwelt  at  home  in  plenty,  and  my  gold  did 

much  abound, 
In  the  company  of  fair  young  maids  the  Spanish  ale 

went  round. 
'Tis  a  bitter  change  from  those  gay  days  that  now 

I'm  forced  to  go, 
And  must  leave  my  bones  in  Santa  Cruz,  far  from  my 

own  Mayo. 

They  are  altered  girls  in  Irrul  now ;  'tis  proud  they're 

grown  and  high, 
With  their  hair-bags  and  their  top-knots — for  I  pass 

their  buckles  by. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       325 

But  it's  little  now  I  heed  their  airs,  for  God  will  have 

it  so, 
That  I  must  depart  for  foreign  lands,  and  leave  ray 

sweet  Mayo. 

'Tis  my  grief  that  Patrick  Loughlin  is  not  Earl  in 

Irrul  still, 
And  that  Brian  Duff  no  longer  rules  as  Lord  upon 

the  Hill ; 
And  that  Colonel  Hugh  MacGrady  should  be  lying 

dead  and  low, 
And   I   sailing,   sailing  swiftly  from   the  county  of 

Mayo. 


326      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 


JEAN  DE  JEAN  FRAZER 
(1809-1852) 

BROSNA'S  BANKS 

YES,  yes,  I  idled  many  an  hour  — 
(Oh  !  would  that  I  could  idle  now, 
In  wooing  back  the  wither'd  flower 
Of  health  into  my  wasted  brow  !) 
But  from  my  life's  o'ershadowing  close, 

My  unim  passioned  spirit  ranks 

Among  its  happiest  moments  those 

I  idled  on  the  Brosna's  Banks. 

For  there  upon  my  boyhood  broke 

The  dreamy  voice  of  nature  first ; 
And  every  word  the  vision  spoke, 

How  deeply  has  my  spirit  nursed  ! 
A  woman's  love,  a  lyre,  or  pen, 

A  rescued  land,  a  nation's  thanks, 
A  friendship  with  the  world,  and  then 

A  grave  upon  the  Brosna's  Banks. 

For  these  I  sued,  and  sought,  and  strove, 
But  now  my  youthful  days  are  gone, 

In  vain,  in  vain — for  woman's  love 
Is  still  a  blessing  to  be  won  ; 

And  still  my  country's  cheek  is  wet, 
The  still-unbroken  fetter  clanks, 


327 


And  I  may  not  forsake  her  yet 
To  die  upon  the  Brosna's  Banks. 

Yet  idle  as  those  visions  seem, 

They  were  a  strange  and  faithful  guide. 
When  heaven  itself  had  scarce  a  gleam 

To  light  my  darken'd  life  beside ; 
And  if  from  grosser  guilt  escaped 

I  feel  no  dying  dread,  the  thanks 
Are  due  unto  the  Power  that  shaped 

My  visions  on  the  Brosna's  Banks. 

And  love,  I  feel,  will  come  at  last, 

Albeit  too  late  to  comfort  me ; 
And  fetters  from  the  land  be  cast, 

Though  I  may  not  survive  to  see. 
If  then  the  gifted,  good,  and  brave, 

Admit  me  to  their  glorious  ranks, 
My  memory  may,  tho'  not  my  grave, 

Be  green  upon  the  Brosna's  Banks. 


328      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 


SONG  FOR  JULY  izTH,  1843 

Air — "  tioyne  Water  " 

COME  !  pledge  again  thy  heart  and  hand" — 
One  grasp  that  ne'er  shall  sever ; 
Our  watchword  be — "  Our  native  land  !  " 
Our  motto — "  Love  forever  !  " 
And  let  the  Orange  lily  be 

Thy  badge,  ray  patriot-brother  — 
The  everlasting  Green  for  me  ; 
And  we  for  one  another. 

Behold  how  green  the  gallant  stem 

On  which  the  flower  is  blowing ; 
How  in  one  heavenly  breeze  and  beam 

Both  flower  and  stem  are  glowing. 
The  same  good  soil,  sustaining  both, 

Makes  both  united  flourish  ; 
But  cannot  give  the  Orange  growth, 

And  cease  the  green  to  nourish. 

Yea,  more — the  hand  that  plucks  the  flow'i 

Will  vainly  strive  to  cherish ; 
The  stem  blooms  on — but  in  that  hour 

The  flower  begins  to  perish. 
Regard  them,  then,  of  equal  worth 

While  lasts  their  genial  weather ; 
The  time's  at  hand  when  into  earth 

The  two  shall  sink  together. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       329 

Ev'n  thus  be,  in  our  country's  cause, 

Our  party  feelings  blended  ; 
Till  lasting  peace,  from  equal  laws, 

On  both  shall  have  descended. 
Till  then  the  Orange  lily  be 

Thy  badge,  my  patriot-brother  — 
The  everlasting  Green  for  me  ; 

And — we  for  one  another. 


330      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 


ALICE  FURLONG 

(1875-        ) 

THE  DREAMER 

A  WIND  that  dies  on  the  meadows  lush, 
Trembling  stars  in  the  breathless  hush  ! 
The  maiden's  sleeping  face  doth  bloom 
A  sad,  white  lily  in  the  gloom. 

Along  the  limpid  horizon  borne 
The  first  gold  breathing  of  the  morn  !  — 
A  lovely  dawn  of  dreams  doth  creep 
Athwart  the  darkness  of  her  sleep. 

In  the  dim  shadow  of  the  eaves 
A  quiet  stir  of  lifted  leaves ! 
As  in  the  old,  beloved  days, 
She  wandereth  by  happy  ways. 

With  half-awakened  twitterings, 

The  young  birds  preen  their  folded  wings ! 

She  giveth  a  forget-me-not 

To  him  who  long  ago  forgot. 

Athwart  the  meadowy,  dewy-sweet, 
A  wind  comes  wandering  on  light  feet ! 
For  her  the  wind  is  from  the  south, 
His  kiss  is  kind  upon  her  mouth. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       331 

In  the  bird's  house  of  emerald 
The  sun  is  weaving  webs  of  gold  ! 
He  never  coldly  went  apart ! 
She  never  broke  her  passionate  heart ! 

Pipeth  clear  from  the  orchard  close 
A  thrush  in  the  bowers  of  white  and  rose  ! 
She  waketh  praying  :     "  God  is  good, 
With  visions  for  my  solitude." 

For  full  delight  of  birds  and  flowers 
The  long  day  spins  its  golden  hours. 
She  serves  the  household  destinies  j 
The  dream  is  happy  in  her  eyes. 

THE  TREES 

THESE  be  God's  fair  high  palaces, 
Walled  with  fine  leafen  trellises, 
Interstarred  with  the  warm  and  luminous 

azure ; 

Sunlights  run  laughing  through, 
And  rains  and  honey-dew 
Scatter  pale  pearls  at  every  green  embrasure. 

The  tangled  twist  and  twine 

Of  his  soaring  staircases  have  mosses  fine 

For  emerald  pavement,  and  each  leafy  chamber 

Is  atmosphered  with  amber. 

Athwart  the  mellow  air 

The  twinkling  threads  of  gossamer 

Shimmer  and  shine 

In  many  a  rainbow  line. 


332      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 

The  chaffinch  is  God's  little  page. 

O  joyant  vassalage  ! 

"  You  will !  You  will !  "  he  sayeth  the  whole  day 
long, 

In  sweet  monotonous  song  : 

Poised  on  the  window-sills  of  outmost  leaves 

He  watches  where  the  tremulous  sunlight  weaves 

Its  golden  webbing  over  the  palpitant  grass, 

While  the  summer  butterfly,  winged  of  the  blue- 
veined  snow, 

Floats  by  on  aerial  tides  as  clear  as  glass  ; 

Like  a  fairy  ship  with  its  delicate  sails  ablow, 

From  the  break  of  morn, 

Herein  the  blackbird  is  God's  courtier, 

With  gold  tongue  ever  astir, 

Piping  and  praising 

On  his  beaked  horn. 

To  do  his  Seigneur  duty 

In  mellow  fluency  and  dulcet  phrasing, 

In  paeans  of  passing  beauty ; 

As  a  chanting  priest, 

Chanting  his  matins  in  the  wane  o'  the  night, 

While  slow  great  winds  of  vibrant  light 

Sweep  up  the  lilied  East. 

The  dumb  thing  is  God's  guest, 

And  ever  tired  creature  seeking  rest ; 

The  sheep,  grown  weary  browsing, 

The  cattle,  drouthy  with  heat, 

One  after  one,  lagging  on  listless  feet, 

Seek  the  green  shadow  of  God's  pleasant  housing ; 

While  the  thousand  winged  wights  of  bough  and  air 

Do  find  God's  palace  fair  ! 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       333 


MARY  FURLONG 
(1868-1898) 

AN  IRISH  LOVE-SONG 

I  love  you,  and  I  love  you,  and  I  love  you,  O  my 
honey ! 
It   isn't   for  your  goodly  lands,  it  isn't  for  your 

money ; 
It  isn't  for  your  father's  cows,  your  mother's  yellow 

butter, 

The  love  that's  in  my  heart  for  you  no  words  of  mine 
may  utter ! 

The  whole  world  is  gone  wrong  with  me  since  yester- 
morning early, 

Above  the  shoulder  of  Sliav  Ruadh  the  sun  was  peep- 
ing barely, 

Your  light  feet  scarcely  stirred  the  dew  among  the 
scented  clover ; 

O  happy  dew,  O  happy  grass,  those  little  feet  went 
over ! 

The  breeze  had  coaxed  your  nut-brown  hair  beneath 

the  white  sunbonnet, 
The  sunbeams  kissed  the  corn-flowers  blue  that  you 

had  fastened  on  it, 
And    danced  and  danced,  and  quivered  down  your 

gown  of  colored  cotton ; 
And  when  I  looked  upon  your  face  I  fear  I'd  quite 

forgotten  — 


334      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURT  OF 

It  was  not  you  I  came  to  see  this  morning  but  another, 

But  who  could  look  on  that  brown  head,  and  ask  for 
Tom,  the  brother  ? 

Your  blue  eyes  have  bewitched  me  quite,  the  eatin' 
and  the  dhrinkin' 

Have  lost  the  grah  *  they  used  to  have,  of  you  I'm  al- 
ways thinkin'. 

The  white  of  wheat  is  on  your  cheek,  the  scarlet  of 

the  berry 
There  sweetly  blends  :  on  each  soft  lip  the  smile  comes 

quick  and  merry ; 
And  oh  !  the  blue,  blue  eyes  that  shine  beneath  their 

silken  lashes  — 
My  word  !  it  is  for  sake  of  them  my  bread  is  turned 

to  ashes ! 

But  sure  this  foolish  tongue  of  mine  won't  get  to  tell 

its  story  — 

Oh,  how  I  wish  I  had  the  talk  of  my  fine  cousin  Rory  ! 
Who's  just  as  glib  as  if  he  ate  the  highest  English 

Grammar, 
And  if  he  loved  a  thousand  times  it  would  not  make 

him  stammer. 

And  yet  I  almost  think  she  cares — for  sometimes  how 

she  blushes ! 
And  so  this  pleasant  eve  of  May,  when  all  the  larks 

and  thrushes 
Are  singing  their  sweet  songs  of  love,  I'll  try  an'  tell 

my  story, 
Although  I  cannot  sing  like  them,  or  speak  like  cousin 

Rory. 

Grah.  taste. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       335 

GLEN-NA-SMOEL 

IN  the  heart  of  high  blue  hills 
Where  the  silence  thrills  and  thrills, 
In  the  Valley  of  the  Thrushes : 
From  the  golden  low  furze-bushes 
On  the  mountain  wind's  light  feet 
Comes  a  perfume  faint  and  sweet. 

Where  the  hills  stand  blue  and  gray 
In  the  sunshine  miles  away, 
Rises  a  small  streamlet  brawling, 
On  the  silence  calling,  calling ; 
Flows  by  fern  and  foxglove  tall 
And  green  mosses  curled  and  small. 

Through  the  valley  it  goes  swift, 
'Tis  the  mountain's  wayward  gift ; 
Dancing  onward,  laughing,  leaping, 
Amber  eddies  gayly  sweeping 
Round  the  big  stones  grayly-white 
In  the  sunny  summer  light ! 

In  the  Thrushes'  mystic  glen 

Are  the  only  dwellers  men  ? 

When  the  ghostly  moonlight  glimmers 

And  the  singing  river  shimmers, 

Do  the  fairies  never  come  — 

Are  their  nimble  feet  grown  numb  ? 

Ah  !  I  think  the  fairies  fled 
When  the  mountain  people  said  : 
"  In  this  crystal-watered  valley 
Skill  and  labor  both  shall  rally, 


336      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

Mighty  earthen  walls  shall  build 
And  the  valley  shall  be  filled, 

"  Filled  with  clear  pellucid  rills 
That  are  born  within  the  hills, 
They  shall  gather  all  these  fountains 
Flowing  sweetly  from  the  mountains, 
Cunningly  shall  bear  them  down 
To  the  distant  thirsty  town  !  " 

No  green  rushes  grow  beside 
The  dark  waters  as  they  glide 
From  the  Valley  of  the  Thrushes ; 
But  the  scent  of  the  furze-bushes 
And  the  breath  of  heath-clad  hill 
Dwell  within  their  bosom  still. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       337 


THOMAS  FURLONG 

(1794-1827) 

BRIDGET  CRUISE 
From  the  Irish  of  O'  Carolan 

OH  !  turn  thee  to  me,  my  only  love, 
Let  not  despair  confound  me ; 
Turn,  and  may  blessings  from  above 
In  life  and  death  surround  thee. 
This  fond  heart  throbs  for  thee  alone  — 

Oh  !  leave  me  not  to  languish ; 
Look  on  these  eyes,  whence  sleep  hath  flown, 

Bethink  thee  of  my  anguish : 
My  hopes,  my  thoughts,  my  destiny  — 
All  dwell,  all  rest,  sweet  girl,  on  thee. 

Young  bud  of  beauty,  forever  bright, 

The  proudest  must  bow  before  thee : 
Source  of  my  sorrow  and  my  delight  — 

Oh  !  must  I  in  vain  adore  thee  ? 
Where,  where,  through  earth's  extended  round, 
Where  may  such  loveliness  be  found  ? 

Talk  not  of  fair  ones  known  of  yore ; 
Speak  not  of  Deirdre  the  renowned  — 

She  whose  gay  glance  each  minstrel  hailed 

Nor  she  whom  the  daring  Dardan  bore 
From  her  fond  husband's  longing  arms ; 
Name  not  the  dame  whose  fatal  charms, 

When  weighed  against  a  world,  prevailed ; 


338      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURr  OF 

To  each  might  blooming  beauty  fall, 
Lovely,  thrice  lovely,  might  they  be ; 

But  the  gifts  and  graces  of  each  and  all 
Are  mingled,  sweet  maid,  in  thee  ! 

How  the  entranced  ear  fondly  lingers 

On  the  turns  of  thy  thrilling  song  1 
How  brightens  each  eye  as  thy  fair  white  fingers 

O'er  the  chords  fly  gently  along  ! 
The  noble,  the  learned,  the  aged,  the  vain, 
Gaze  on  the  songstress,  and  bless  the  strain. 
How  winning,  dear  girl,  is  thine  air, 
How  glossy  thy  golden  hair  ! 
Oh  !  loved  one,  come  back  again, 

With  thy  train  of  adorers  about  thee  — 
Oh  !  come,  for  in  grief  and  in  gloom  we  remain  — 

Life  is  not  life  without  thee. 

My  memory  wanders — my  thoughts  have  strayed  — 

My  gathering  sorrows  oppress  me  — 
Oh  !  look  on  thy  victim,  bright  peerless  maid, 

Say  one  kind  word  to  bless  me. 
Why,  why  on  thy  beauty  must  I  dwell, 
When  each  tortured  heart  knows  its  power  too  well  ? 
Or  why  need  I  say  that  favored  and  blessed 

Must  be  the  proud  land  that  bore  thee  ? 
Oh  !  dull  is  the  eye  and  cold  the  breast 

That  remains  unmoved  before  thee. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       339 

EILEEN  AROON  ' 

I'LL  love  thee  evermore, 
Eileen  Aroon  ! 
I'll  bless  thee  o'er  and  o'er, 

Eileen  Aroon  ! 
Oh,  for  thy  sake  I'll  tread 
Where  the  plains  of  Mayo  spread, 
By  hope  still  fondly  led, 
Eileen  Aroon  ! 

Oh,  how  may  I  gain  thee, 

Eileen  Aroon  ? 
Shall  feasting  entertain  thee, 

Eileen  Aroon  ? 

I  would  range  the  world  wide, 
With  love  alone  to  guide, 
To  win  thee  for  my  bride, 

Eileen  Aroon  ! 

Then  wilt  thou  come  away. 

Eileen  Aroon  ? 
Oh,  wilt  thou  come  to  stay, 

Eileen  Aroon  ? 
Oh,  oh,  yes,  with  thee, 
I  will  wander  far  and  free, 
And  thy  only  love  shall  be, 

Eileen  Aroon  ! 

A  hundred  thousand  welcomes, 

Eileen  Aroon  ! 
A  hundred  thousand  welcomes, 

Eileen  Aroon  ? 

1  This  Hardiman  calls  in  his  "  Irish  Minstrelsy :'  the  "  old 
Eileen  Aroon." 


340      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

Oh,  welcome  evermore, 
With  welcomes  yet  in  store, 
Till  love  and  life  are  o'er, 
Eileen  Aroon ! 


MAGGY  LAIDIR 
From  the  Irish  of  John  O'Neachtan 

Here's  first  the  toast,  the  pride  and  boast, 
Our  darling  Maggy  Laidir  ; 
Let  old  and  young,  with  ready  tongue 
And  open  heart,  applaud  her. 
Again  prepare — here's  to  the  Fair 

Whose  smiles  with  joy  have  crowned  us, 
Then  drain  the  bowl  for  each  gay  soul 
That's  drinking  here  around  us. 

Come,  friends,  don't  fail  to  toast  O'Neil, 

Whose  race  our  rights  defended ; 
Maguire  the  true,  O'Donnell  too, 

From  eastern  sires  descended. 
Up  !  up  again — the  tribe  of  Maine 

In  danger  never  failed  us, 
With  Leinster's  spear  forever  near, 

When  foemen  have  assailed  us. 

The  madder  fill  with  right  good  will, 

There's  sure  no  joy  like  drinking  — 
Our  Bishop's  name  this  draught  must  claim, 

Come  let  me  have  no  shrinking. 
His  name  is  dear,  and  with  him  here 

We'll  join  old  Father  Peter, 
And  as  he  steers  thro"  life's  long  years, 

May  life  to  him  seem  sweeter. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       341 

Come  mark  the  call,  and  drink  to  all 

Old  Ireland's  tribes  so  glorious, 
Who  still  have  stood,  in  fields  of  blood, 

Unbroken  and  victorious  : 
Long  as  of  old  may  Connaught  hold 

Her  boast  of  peerless  beauty ; 
And  Leinster  show  to  friend  and  foe 

Her  sons  all  prompt  for  duty. 

A  curse  for  those  who  dare  oppose 

Our  country's  claim  for  freedom ; 
May  none  appear  the  knaves  to  hear, 

Or  none  who  hear  'em  heed  'em  : 
May  famine  fall  upon  them  all, 

May  pests  and  plagues  confound  them, 
And  heartfelt  care,  and  black  despair, 

Till  life's  last  hour  surround  them. 

May  lasting  joys  attend  the  boys 

Who  love  the  land  that  bore  us, 
Still  may  they  share  such  friendly  fare 

As  this  that  spreads  before  us. 
May  social  cheer,  like  that  we've  here, 

Forever  stand  to  greet  them  ; 
And  hearts  as  sound  as  those  around 

Be  ready  still  to  meet  them. 

Come,  raise  the  voice  !  rejoice,  rejoice, 

Fast,  fast,  the  dawn's  advancing, 
My  eyes  grow  dim,  but  every  limb 

Seems  quite  agog  for  dancing. 
Sweet  girls  begin,  'tis  shame  and  sin 

To  see  the  time  we're  losing. 


342      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

Come,  lads,  be  gay — trip,  trip  away, 
While  those  who  sit  keep  boozing. 

Where's  Thady  Oge  ?  up,  Dan,  you  rogue, 

Why  stand  you  snilly-shally? 
There's  Mora  here,  and  Una's  here, 

And  yonder' s  sporting  Sally. 
Now  frisk  it  round — aye,  there's  the  sound 

Our  sires  were  fond  of  hearing ; 
The  harp  rings  clear — hear,  gossip,  hear ! 

O  sure  such  notes  are  cheering  ! 

Your  health,  my  friend  !  till  life  shall  end 

May  no  bad  chance  betide  us ; 
Oh,  may  we  still,  our  grief  to  kill, 

Have  drink  like  this  beside  us  ! 
A  fig  for  care  !  but  who's  that  there 

That's  of  a  quarrel  thinking  ?  — 
Put  out  the  clown  or  knock  him  down  — 

We're  here  for  fun  and  drinking. 

Tie  up  his  tongue — am  I  not  sprung 

From  chiefs  that  all  must  honor  — 
The  princely  Gael,  the  great  O'Neil, 

O' Kelly  and  O'Connor, 
O'Brien  the  strong,  Maguire,  whose  song 

Has  won  the  praise  of  nations ; 
O' Moore  the  tough,  and  big  Branduff, 

These  are  my  blood  relations  ! 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       343 

ROISIN  DUBH » 

OH !   my  sweet  little  rose,  cease  to  pine  for  the 
past, 
For  the  friends  that  came  eastward  shall  see 

thee  at  last ; 

They  bring  blessings  and  favors  the  past  never  knew 
To  pour  forth  in  gladness  on  my  Roisin  Dubh. 


Long,  long,  with  my  dearest,  through  strange  scenes 

I've  gone, 
O'er  mountains  and  broad  valleys  I  still  have  toiled 

on; 

O'er  the  Erne  I  have  sailed  as  the  rough  gales  blew, 
While  the  harp  poured  its  music  for  my  Roisin  Dubh. 


Though  wearied,  oh  !  my  fair  one  !  do  not  slight  my 

song, 
For  my  heart  dearly  loves  thee,  and  hath  loved  thee 

long ; 

In  sadness  and  in  sorrow  I  still  shall  be  true, 
And  cling  with  wild  fondness  round  my  Roisin  Dubh. 


1  This  song  is  a  translation.  Mr.  Hardiman  in  his  "  Irish 
Minstrelsy,"  says  of  it  :  "  Roisin  Dubh  ( Little  Black  Rose)  is 
an  allegorical  ballad  in  which  strong  political  feelings  are  con- 
veyed as  a  personal  address  from  a  lover  to  his  fair  one.  The 
allegorical  meaning  has  been  long  since  forgotten,  and  the 
verses  are  now  remembered  and  sung  as  a  plaintive  love  ditty. 
It  was  composed  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth  of  England,  to  cele- 
brate our  Irish  hero,  Hugh  Ruadh  O'Donnell  of  Tirconnell. 
By  Roisin  Dubh,  supposed  to  be  a  beloved  female,  is  meant 
Ireland." 


344      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

There's  no  flower  that  e'er  bloomed  can  my  rose  excel, 
There's  no  tongue  that  e'er  moved  half  my  love  can 

tell, 

Had  I  strength,  had  I  skill  the  wide  world  to  subdue, 
Oh  !   the  queen  of  that  wide  world  should  be  Roisin 

Dubh. 

Had   I  power,  oh !  my  loved  one,  but  to  plead  thy 

right, 

I  should  speak  out  in  boldness  for  my  heart's  delight ; 
I  would  tell  to  all  round  me  how  my  fondness  grew, 
And  bid  them  bless  the  beauty  of  my  Roisin  Dubh. 

The  mountains,  high  and  misty,  through  the  moors 
must  go, 

The  rivers  shall  run  backwards,  and  the  lakes  over- 
flow, 

And  the  wild  waves  of  old  ocean  wear  a  crimson  hue, 

Ere  the  world  sees  the  ruin  of  my  Roisin  Dubh. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LTRICS       345 


F.  O'NEILL  GALLAGHER 

(Living) 

THE  SEA  MADNESS 

I  HAVE  come  far  from  the  sound  of  the  thresh,  the 
sight  of  the  living  sea, 
To  a  place  of  cribbed  and  narrow  ways,  where 

only  the  wind  is  free  ; 
But  the  leap  of  the  sea  is  in  my  blood,  and  always, 

night  and  day, 

I  hear  the  lap  and  wash  of  the  waves,  the  hiss  of  the 
flying  spray. 

When  the  loosened  winds  of  the  tempest  wake  far 
thunder  on  the  deep 

I  can  hear  the  siren  music  calling  through  the  veil  of 
sleep  j 

Through  the  thronging  city  highways  comes  the  hol- 
low ocean  roar, 

And  I  sicken  for  the  long  green  surge,  the  lonely 
foam-wet  shore. 

I  know  a  storm-lashed  headland,  where  the  broken 

hillside  dips 
In  a  sombre  flame  of  heather  to  the  ocean's  singing 

lips. 
I  must  go ;  the  sea  has  called  me,  as  a  mistress  to  her 

swain ; 
From  the  immemorial  tumult  I  shall  drink  of  peace 

again. 


346      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURT  OF 


W.  D.  GALLAGHER 

(Living.} 

THE  LABORER 

STAND  up — erect !     Thou  hast  the  form, 
And  likeness  of  thy  God  !  who  more  ? 
A  soul  as  dauntless  'mid  the  storm 
Of  daily  life — a  heart  as  warm 
And  pure,  as  breast  e'er  wore. 

What  then  ?     Thou  art  as  true  a  man 
As  moves  the  human  mass  among ; 

As  much  a  part  of  the  great  plan 

That  with  creation's  dawn  began 
As  any  of  the  throng. 

Who  is  thine  enemy  ?     The  high 
In  station,  or  in  wealth  the  chief 

The  great,  who  coldly  pass  thee  by, 

With  proud  step  and  averted  eye  ? 
Nay  !  nurse  not  such  belief. 

If  true  unto  thyself  thou  wast, 

What  were  the  proud  one's  scorn  to  thee  ? 
A  feather,  which  thou  mightest  cast 
Aside  as  idly  as  the  blast 

The  light  leaf  from  the  tree. 

No : — uncurb'd  passions,  low  desires, 
Absence  of  noble  self-respect,  — 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LTRICS       347 

Death,  in  the  breast's  consuming  fires, 
To  that  high  nature  which  aspires 
Forever,  till  thus  check'd,  — 

These  are  thine  enemies — thy  worst ; 

They  chain  thee  to  thy  lowly  lot ; 
Thy  labor  and  thy  life  accurs'd. 
Oh,  stand  erect,  and  from  them  burst, 

And  longer  suffer  not ! 

Thou  art  thyself  thine  enemy  ! 

The  great ! — what  better  they  than  thou  ? 
As  theirs,  is  not  thy  will  as  free  ? 
Has  God  with  equal  favors  thee 

Neglected  to  endow  ? 

True;  wealth  thou  hast  not — 'tis  but  dust ! 

Nor  place,  — uncertain  as  the  wind  ! 
But  that  thou  hast,  which,  with  thy  crust 
And  water,  may  despise  the  lust 

Of  both, — a  noble  mind  ! 

With  this,  and  passions  under  ban, 

True  faith,  and  holy  trust  in  God, 
Thou  art  the  peer  of  any  man. 
Ix)ok  up,  then ;  that  thy  little  span 

Of  life  may  well  be  trod  ! 


348      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 


ARTHUR  GERALD  GEOGHEGAN 

(1810-1889) 

AFTER  AUGHRIM 

DO  you  remember,  long  ago, 
Kathaleen  ? 

When  your  lover  whispered  low, 
"  Shall  I  stay  or  shall  I  go, 

Kathaleen  ?  " 

And  you  answered  proudly,  "  Go  ! 
And  join  King  James  and  strike  a  blow 
For  the  Green  !  " 

Mavronc,  your  hair  is  white  as  snow, 

Kathaleen ; 

Your  heart  is  sad  and  full  of  woe. 
Do  you  repent  you  made  him  go, 

Kathaleen  ? 

And  quick  you  answer  proudly,  "  No ! 
For  better  die  with  Sarsfield  so 
Than  live  a  slave  without  a  blow 

For  the  Green  !  " 


THE  MOUNTAIN  FERN 

OH,  the  fern,  the  fern,  the  Irish  hill  fern, 
That  girds  our  blue  lakes  from  Lough  Ine  to 

Lough  Erne, 
That  waves  on  our  crags  like  the  plume  of  a  king, 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       349 

And  bends  like  a  nun  over  clear  well  and  spring. 
The  fairies'  tall  palm-tree,  the  heath  bird's  fresh  nest, 
And  the  couch  the  red-deer  deems  the  sweetest  and 

best ; 

With  the  free  winds  to  fan  it,  and  dew-drops  to  gem, 
Oh,  what  can  ye  match  with  its  beautiful  stem  ? 

From  the  shrine  of  St.  Finbar,  by  lone  Avon-bwee, 
To  the  halls  of  Dunluce,  with  its  towers  by  the  sea, 
From  the  hill  of  Knockthu  to  the  rath  of  Moyvore, 
Like  a  chaplet  that  circles  our  green  island  o'er, 
In  the  bawn  of  the  chief,  by  the  anchorite's  cell, 
Oh  the  hilltop  or  greenwood,  by  streamlet  or  well, 
With  a  spell  on  each  leaf  which  no  mortal  can  learn, 
Oh,  there  never  was  plant  like  the  Irish  hill  fern  ! 

Oh,  the  fern,  the  fern,  the  Irish  hill  fern, 
That  shelters  the  weary,  or  wild  roe,  or  kern  ; 
Through  the  glens  of  Kilcoe  rose  a  shout  on  the  gale, 
As  the  Saxons  rushed  forth  in  their  wrath  from  the 

Pale, 

With  bandog  and  blood-hound,  all  savage  to  see, 
To  hunt  through  Cluncalla  the  wild  rapparee. 
Hark  !  a  cry  from  yon  dell  on  the  startled  ear  rings, 
And  forth  from  the  wood  the  young  fugitive  springs, 
Through  the  copse,  o'er  the  bog,  and  oh,  saints  be  his 

guide  1 

His  fleet  step  now  falters,  there's  blood  on  his  sides ; 
Yet  onward   he   strains,  climbs   the   cliff,  fords  the 

stream, 

And  sinks  on  the  hilltop,  'mid  bracken  leaves  green  ; 
And  thick  o'er  his  brow  are  the  fresh  clusters  piled, 
And  they  cover  his  form  as  the  mother  her  child, 


350      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

And  the  Saxon  is  baffled.     They  never  discern 
Where  it  shelters  and  saves  him,  the  Irish  hill  fern. 


Oh,  the  fern,  the  fern,  the  Irish  hill  fern, 

That  pours  a  wild  keen  o'er  the  hero's  gray  cairn, 

Go  hear  it  at  midnight,  when  stars  are  all  out, 

And  the  wind  o'er  the  hillside  is  moaning  about, 

With  a  rustle  and  stir,  and  a  low  wailing  tone 

That  thrills  through  the  heart  with  its  whispering  lone ; 

And  ponder  its  meaning,  when  haply  you  stray 

Where  the  halls  of  the  stranger  in  ruin  decay  ; 

With  night-owls  for  warders,  the  goshawk  for  guest, 

And  their  dais  of  honor  by  cattle-hoof  pressed, 

With  its  foss  choked  with  rushes,  and  spider  webs 

flung 
Over  walls  where  the  marchmen  their  red  weapons 

hung, 

With  a  curse  on  their  name,  and  a  sigh  for  the  hour 
That  tarries  so  long.     Look  what  waves  on  the  tower 
With  an  omen  and  sign,  and  an  augury  stern, 
'Tis  the  green  flag  of  Time,  'tis  the  Irish  hill  fern. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       351 


LADY  GILBERT 

jRosa  Mulholland 
(1855-  ) 

KILFENORA 

A  DREAM  lives  in  the  purple  on  thy  hills, 
A  spirit  haunteth  thee  forevermore 
Kilfenora ! 

Out  of  that  dream  she  cometh  when  she  wills, 

That  spirit,  and  walketh  on  thy  wild  seashore, 

Kilfenora ! 

A  small  white  sea-bird  on  thy  wave  below 
Sits  long  and  broods  and  rocks  upon  thy  flood 

Kilfenora  ! 

The  storm  within  my  heart  how  can  she  know. 
Yet  she  doth  know  and  all  hath  understood, 

Kilfenora  ! 

The  violet  and  the  song-bird  have  their  nests 
In  thy  green  lap,  and  they  are  sweet  in  thee, 

Kilfenora ! 

But  sweeter  far  the  dream  within  my  breast, 
Scenting  my  thoughts  and  singing  piteously, 

Kilfenora ! 

O  sweeter  far  the  dream  that  lived  and  died, 
A  summer's  life  and  then  a  winter's  grave, 
Kilfenora ! 


352      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

In  thy  fair  valley  and  on  thy  strong  tide, 
That  gave  and  took,  and  taking  all,  yet  gave, 
Kilfenora ! 


SAINT  BRIGID 

9"|V    /TID  dewy  pastures  girdled  with  blue  air, 
IV/I        Where  ruddy  kine  the  limpid  waters  drink, 
Through  violet-purpled  woods  of  green  Kil- 
dare, 

'Neath  rainbow  skies,  by  tinkling  rivulet's  brink, 
O  Brigid,  young,  thy  tender,  snow-white  feet 

In  days  of  old  on  breezy  morns  and  eves 
Wandered  through  labyrinths  of  sun  and  shade, 

Thy  face  so  innocent-sweet 
Shining  with  love  that  neither  joys  nor  grieves 
Save  as  the  angels,  meek  and  holy  maid  ! 

With  white  fire  in  thy  hand  that  burned  no  man, 

But  cleansed  and  warmed  where'er  its  rays  might 

fall, 
Nor  ever  wasted  low,  or  needed  fan, 

Thou  walk'dst  at  eve  among  the  oak-trees  tall. 
There  thou  didst  chant  thy  vespers,  while  each  star 

Grew  brighter  listening  through  the  leafy  screen. 
Then  ceased  the  song-bird  all  his  love-notes  soft, 
His  music  near  or  far, 

Hushing  his  passion  'mid  the  sombre  green 
To  let  thy  peaceful  whispers  float  aloft. 

And  still  from  heavenly  choirs  thou  steal'st  by  night 

To  tell  sweet  Aves  in  the  woods  unseen, 
To  tend  the  shrine- lamps  with  thy  flambeau  white 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS,        353 

And  set  thy  tender  footprints  in  the  green. 
Thus  sing  our  birds  with  holy  note  and  pure, 

As  though  the  loves  of  angels  were  their  theme ; 
Thus  burn  to  throbbing  flame  our  sacred  fires 
With  heats  that  still  endure ; 

Thence  hath  our  daffodil  its  golden  gleam, 
From  thy  dear  mindfulness  that  never  tires  ! 


I 


SHAMROCKS 

WEAR  a  shamrock  in  my  heart. 
Three  in  one,  one  in  three  — 
Truth  and  love  and  faith, 
Tears  and  pain  and  death  ; 
O  sweet  my  shamrock  is  to  me  ! 


Lay  me  in  my  hollow  bed, 
Grow  the  shamrocks  over  me. 
Three  in  one,  one  in  three, 
Faith  and  hope  and  charity, 
Peace  and  rest  and  silence  be 

With  me  where  you  lay  my  head  : 
O  dear  the  shamrocks  are  to  me  ! 

'     SONG 

THE  silent  bird  is  hid  in  the  boughs. 
The  scythe  is  hid  in  the  corn, 
The  lazy  oxen  wink  and  drowse, 
The  grateful  sheep  are  shorn ; 
Redder  and  redder  burns  the  rose, 

The  lily  was  ne'er  so  pale, 

Stiller  and  stiller  the  river  flows 

Along  the  path  to  the  vale. 


354      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

A  little  door  is  hid  in  the  boughs, 

A  face  is  hiding  within ; 
When  birds  are  silent  and  oxen  drowse 

Why  should  a  maiden  spin  ? 
Slower  and  slower  turns  the  wheel, 

The  face  turns  red  and  pale, 
Brighter  and  brighter  the  looks  that  steal 

Along  the  path  to  the  vale. 


THE  BUILDERS 

I  SAW  the  builders  laying 
Stones  on  the  grassy  sod, 
And  people  praised  them,  saying 
"  A  fane  to  the  mighty  God 
Shall  rise  aloft  in  glory, 

Pillars  and  arches  wide, 
Windows  stained  with  the  story 
Of  Christ  the  Crucified." 

I  saw  the  broken  boulders 

Lie  in  the  waving  grass, 
Flung  down  from  bending  shoulders. 

And  said,  "  Our  lives  must  pass 
Ere  wide  cathedral  spreading 

Can  span  this  mossy  field 
Where  kine  are  slowly  treading 

And  flowers  their  honey  yield. 

"  Oh,  dreaming  builders,  tarry  ! 

Unchain  your  souls  from  toil, 
Leave  the  rock  in  the  quarry, 

The  bloom  upon  the  soil ; 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        355 

For  life  is  short,  my  brothers, — 

And  labor  wastes  it  sore, — 
Why  toil  to  gladden  others 

When  you  shall  breathe  no  more  ? 

"  Oh  !  come  with  footstep  springing, 

With  empty  hands  and  free, 
And  tread  the  green  earth  singing 

'  The  world  was  made  for  me !  ' 
Pray  amid  nature's  sweetness 

In  pillared  forest  glade, 
Content  with  the  incompleteness 

Of  fanes  that  the  Lord  has  made  !  " 

The  builders,  never  heeding, 

Kept  piling  stone  on  stone, 
Their  hands  with  toil  were  bleeding  — 

I  went  my  way  alone. 
Prayed  in  the  forest  temple 

And  ate  the  wild-bee's  store ; 
My  life  was  pure  and  simple  — 

What  would  the  Lord  have  more? 

The  years,  like  one  long  morning, 

They  all  flew  swiftly  by ; 
Old  age  with  little  warning 

Came  creeping  softly  nigh. 
Now  (be  we  all  forgiven  !) 

I  longed  to  see,  alas  ! 
What  the  builders  had  raised  to  heaven 

Instead  of  the  tender  grass. 

I  heard  a  sweet  bell  ringing 
Over  the  world  so  wide ; 


356      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURr  OF 

I  heard  a  sound  of  singing 

Across  the  eventide. 
What  sight  my  soul  bewilders 

Beneath  the  sunset's  glow  ? 
The  fane  that  the  dreaming  builders 

Were  building  long  ago  ! 

"Tis  n6t  the  sculptured  portal, 

Or  windows  jeweled  wide, 
With  joy  of  the  life  immortal, 

And  woes  of  him  who  died, 
That  fill  my  soul  with  wonder, 

And  drain  my  heart  of  tears, 
And  ask  with  voice  of  thunder, 

Where  are  thy  wasted  years  ! 

But  a  thousand  thousand  creatures 

Kneel  down  where  grew  the  sod, 
And  hear  with  glowing  features 

The  words  that  breathe  of  God. 
Alone  and  empty-handed, 

I  wait  by  the  open  door : 
Such  work  hath  the  Lord  commended, 

And  I  can  work — no  more  ! 

The  builders  never  heeding 

They  lie  and  take  their  rest, 
And  hands  no  longer  bleeding 

Are  folded  on  each  breast  — 
The  grass  waves  o'er  them  sleeping, 

And  flowerets  red  and  white 
Where  I  kneel  above  them  weeping, 

And  whisper,  "  You  were  right." 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       357 

THE  WILD  GEESE 

I  HAD  no  sail  to  cross  the  sea, 
A  brave  white  bird  went  forth  from  me, 
My  heart  was  hid  beneath  his  wing  : 

0  strong  white  bird,  come  back  in  spring  ! 

1  watched  the  wild  geese  rise  and  cry 
Across  the  flaring  western  sky ; 

Their  winnowing  pinions  clove  the  light, 
Then  vanished,  and  came  down  the  night. 

I  laid  me  low,  my  day  was  done, 
I  longed  not  for  the  morrow's  sun, 
But  closely  swathed  in  swoon  of  sleep, 
Forgot  to  hope,  forgot  to  weep. 

The  moon,  through  veils  of  gloomy  red, 
A  warm  yet  dusky  radiance  shed 
All  down  our  valley's  golden  stream, 
And  flushed  my  slumber  with  a  dream. 

Her  mystic  torch  lit  up  my  brain  ; 
My  spirit  rose  and  lived  amain, 
And  followed  through  the  windy  spray 
That  bird  upon  its  watery  way. 

" O  wild  white  bird,  O  wait  for  me! 
My  soul  hath  wings  to  fly  with  thee  : 
On  foam  waves,  lengthening  out  afar, 
We'll  ride  towards  the  western  star. 

"  O'er  glimmering  plains,  through  forest  gloom, 
To  track  a  wanderer's  feet  I  come ; 


358      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

'Mid  lonely  swamp,  by  haunted  brake, 
I'll  pass  unfrighted  for  his  sake. 

"Alone,  afar,  his  footsteps  roam, 
The  stars  his  roof,  the  tent  his  home. 
Saw'st  thou  what  way  the  wild  geese  flew 
To  sunward  through  the  thick  night  dew  ? 

"  Carry  my  soul  where  he  abides, 
And  pierce  the  mystery  that  hides 
His  presence,  and  through  time  and  space 
Look  with  mine  eyes  upon  his  face." 

Beside  his  prairie  fire  he  rests, 

All  feathered  things  are  in  their  nests  : 

"  What  strange  wild  bird  is  this,"  he  saith, 

"  Still  fragrant  with  the  ocean's  breath? 

"  Perch  on  my  hand,  thou  briny  thing, 
And  let  me  stroke  thy  shy  wet  wing  ; 
What  message  in  thy  soft  eye  thrills  ? 
I  see  again  my  native  hills, 

"  And  vale,  the  river's  silver  streak, 
The  mist  upon  the  blue,  blue  peak, 
The  shadows  gray,  the  golden  sheaves, 
The  mossy  walls,  the  russet  eaves. 

"  I  greet  the  friends  I've  loved  and  lost, 
Do  all  forget  ?     No,  tempest-tost, 
That  braved  for  me  the  ocean's  foam, 
Some  heart  remembers  me  at  home. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       359 

"Ere  spring's  return  I  will  be  there, 
Thou  strange  sea-fragrant  messenger  !  " 
I  wake  and  weep ;  the  moon  shines  sweet, 
O  dream  too  short !     O  bird  too  fleet ! 


360      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 
(1728-1774) 

AN  ELEGY 
On  ike  glory  of  her  sex,  Mrs.  Mary  Blaize. 

GOOD  people  all,  with  one  accord, 
Lament  for  Madam  Blaize, 
Who  never  wanted  a  good  word  - 
From  those  who  spoke  her  praise. 

The  needy  seldom  passed  her  door, 
And  always  found  her  kind  ; 

She  freely  lent  to  all  the  poor  — 
Who  left  a  pledge  behind. 

She  strove  the  neighborhood  to  please 
With  manners  wondrous  winning  ; 

And  never  followed  wicked  ways  — 
Unless  when  she  was  sinning. 

At  church,  in  silks  and  satins  new, 
With  hoop  of  monstrous  size, 

She  never  slumbered  in  her  pew  — 
But  when  she  shut  her  eyes. 

Her  love  was  sought,  I  do  aver, 
By  twenty  beaux  and  more ; 

The  King  himself  has  followed  her  — 
When  she  has  walked  before. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       361 

But  now,  her  wealth  and  finery  fled, 

Her  hangers-on  cut  short  all ; 
The  doctors  found,  when  she  was  dead  — 

Her  last  disorder  mortal. 

Let  us  lament,  in  sorrow  sore, 

For  Kent  Street  well  may  say, 
That  had  she  lived  a  twelvemonth  more  — 

She  had  not  died  to-day. 


MEMORY 

O  MEMORY,  thou  fond  deceiver, 
Still  importunate  and  vain, 
To  former  joys  recurring  ever, 
And  turning  all  the  past  to  pain  : 

Thou,  like  the  world,  th'  oppress'd  oppressing, 
Thy  smiles  increase  the  wretch's  woe : 

And  he  who  wants  each  other  blessing 
In  thee  must  ever  find  a  foe. 


r  •  ^ 


THE  HERMIT 

From  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield. 

URN  gentle  Hermit  of  the  dale, 
And  guide  my  lonely  way 
To  where  yon  taper  cheers  the  vale 
With  hospitable  ray. 


"For  here  forlorn  and  lost  I  tread, 
With  fainting  steps  and  slow ; 


362      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

Where  wilds  immeasurably  spread, 
Seem  lengthening  as  I  go." 

"Forbear  my  son,"  the  Hermit  cries, 
"  To  tempt  the  dangerous  gloom 

For  yonder  faithless  phantom  flies 
To  lure  thee  to  thy  doom. 

"  Here  to  the  houseless  child  of  want 

My  door  is  open  still ; 
And  though  my  portion  is  but  scant, 

I  give  it  with  good  will. 

"  Then  turn  to-night,  and  freely  share 
Whate'er  my  cell  bestows ; 

My  rushy  couch  and  frugal  fare, 
My  blessing  and  repose. 

"  No  flocks  that  range  the  valley  free 
To  slaughter  I  condemn ; 

Taught  by  that  Power  that  pities  me, 
I  learn  to  pity  them ; 

"  But  from  the  mountain's  grassy  side 

A  guiltless  feast  I  b'ing ; 
A  scrip  with  herbs  and  fruits  supplied, 

And  water  from  the  spring. 

"Then  pilgrim  turn,  thy  cares  forego; 

All  earth-born  cares  are  wrong: 
Man  wants  but  little  here  below, 

Nor  wants  that  little  long." 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS        363 

Soft  as  the  dew  from  heaven  descends, 

His  gentle  accents  fell ; 
The  modest  stranger  lowly  bends, 

And  follows  to  the  cell. 

Far  in  a  wilderness  obscure, 

The  lonely  mansion  lay  ; 
A  refuge  to  the  neighboring  poor, 

And  strangers  led  astray. 

No  stores  beneath  its  humble  thatch 

Required  a  master's  care ; 
The  wicket,  opening  with  a  latch, 

Received  the  harmless  pair. 

And  now,  when  busy  crowds  retire 

To  take  their  evening  rest, 
The  Hermit  trimmed  his  little  fire 

And  cheered  his  pensive  guest ; 

And  spread  his  vegetable  store, 

And  gayly  pressed  and  smiled ; 

And,  skilled  in  legendary  lore, 
The  lingering  hours  beguiled. 

Around,  in  sympathetic  mirth, 

Its  tricks  the  kitten  tries  ; 
The  cricket  chirrups  on  the  hearth : 

The  crackling  fagot  flies. 

But  nothing  could  a  charm  impart 

To  soothe  the  stranger's  woe ; 
For  grief  was  heavy  at  his  heart, 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 


364      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

His  rising  cares  the  Hermit  spied, 
With  answering  care  opprest ; 

"  And  whence,  unhappy  youth,"  he  cried, 
"  The  sorrows  of  thy  breast  ? 

"From  better  habitations  spurned, 

Reluctant  dost  thou  rove  ? 
Or  grieve  for  friendship  unreturned, 

Or  unregarded  love  ? 

"Alas  !  the  joys  that  fortune  brings 

Are  trifling,  and  decay ; 
And  those  who  prize  the  paltry  things 

More  trifling  still  than  they. 

"  And  what  is  friendship  but  a  name, 
A  charm  that  lulls  to  sleep ; 

A  shade  that  follows  wealth  or  fame, 
And  leaves  the  wretch  to  weep  ? 

"  And  love  is  still  an  emptier  sound, 
The  modern  fair  one's  jest : 

On  earth  unseen,  or  only  found 
To  warm  the  turtle's  nest. 

"  For  shame,  fond  youth  !  thy  sorrows  hush, 
And  spurn  the  sex,"  he  said; 

But  while  he  spoke,  a  rising  blush 
His  lovelorn  guest  betrayed. 

Surprised,  he  sees  new  beauties  rise, 
Swift  mantling  to  the  view  : 

Like  colors  o'er  the  morning  skies, 
As  bright,  as  transient  too. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       365 

The  bashful  look,  the  rising  breast, 

Alternate  spread  alarms ; 
The  lovely  stranger  stands  confest 

A  maid  in  all  her  charms. 

"And,  ah  !  forgive  a  stranger  rude, 

A  wretch  forlorn,"  she  cried; 
"  Whose  feet,  unhallowed  thus  intrude 

Where  heaven  and  you  reside. 

"  But  let  a  maid  thy  pity  share, 

Whom  love  has  taught  to  stray ; 

Who  seeks  for  rest,  but  finds  despair 
Companion  of  her  way. 

"  My  father  lived  beside  the  Tyne, 

A  wealthy  lord  was  he ; 
And  all  his  wealth  was  marked  as  mine, — 

He  had  but  only  me. 

"  To  win  me  from  his  tender  arms, 

Unnumbered  suitors  came ; 
Who  praised  me  for  imputed  charms, 

And  felt,  or  feigned,  a  flame. 

"  Each  hour  a  mercenary  crowd 

With  richest  proffers  strove ; 
Among  the  rest  young  Edwin  bowed, 

But  never  talked  of  love. 

"  In  humble,  simplest  habit  clad, 

No  wealth  or  power  had  he ; 
Wisdom  and  worth  were  all  he  had, 

Bui  these  were  all  to  me. 


366      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

"  And  when  beside  me  in  the  dale 

He  caroled  lays  of  love, 
His  breath  lent  fragrance  to  the  gale 

And  music  to  the  grove. 

"  The  blossom  opening  to  the  day, 
The  dews  of  heaven  refined, 

Could  naught  of  purity  display 
To  emulate  his  mind. 

"  The  dew,  the  blossoms  of  the  tree, 
With  charms  inconstant  shine ; 

Their  charms  were  his,  but,  woe  to  me  ! 
Their  constancy  was  mine. 

"  For  still  I  tried  each  fickle  art, 

Importunate  and  vain ; 
And  while  his  passion  touched  my  heart, 

I  triumphed  in  his  pain  ; 

"Till,  quite  dejected  with  my  scorn, 
He  left  me  to  my  pride ; 

And  sought  a  solitude  forlorn, 
In  secret,  where  he  died. 

"  But  mine  the  sorrow,  mine  the  fault, 
And  well  my  life  shall  pay ; 

I'll  seek  the  solitude  he  sought, 
And  stretch  me  where  he  lay. 

"  And  there  forlorn,  despairing,  hid, 
I'll  lay  me  down  and  die ; 

'Twas  so  for  me  that  Edwin  did, 
And  so  for  him  will  I." 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       367 

"Forbid  it,  Heaven,"  the  Hermit  cried, 
And  elapsed  her  to  his  breast ; 

The  wondering  fair  one  turned  to  chide, — 
'Twas  Edwin's  self  that  pressed. 

"Turn,  Angelina,  ever  dear, 

My  charmer,  turn  to  see 
Thy  own,  thy  long  lost  Edwin  here, 

Restored  to  love  and  thee. 

"  Thus  let  me  hold  thee  to  my  heart, 

And  every  care  resign ; 
And  shall  we  never,  never  part, 

My  life, — my  all  that's  mine  ? 

"  No,  never  from  this  hour  to  part, 

We'll  live  and  love  so  true ; 
The  sigh  that  rends  thy  constant  heart 

Shall  break  thy  Edwin's  too." 


TONY  LUMPKIN'S  SONG 

LET  schoolmasters  puzzle  their  brain 
With    grammar,    and    nonsense,    and 

learning; 
Good  liquor,  I  stoutly  maintain, 

Gives  genus  a  better  discerning. 
Let  them  brag  of  their  heathenish  gods, 

Their  Lethes,  their  Styxes,  and  Stygians  ; 
Their  Quis,  and  their  Quaes,  and  their  Quods, 
They're  all  but  a  parcel  of  Pigeons. 
Toroddle,  toroddle,  toroll. 


368      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

When  Methodist  preachers  come  down, 

A-preaching  that  drinking  is  sinful, 
I'll  wager  the  rascals  a  crown, 

They  always  preach  best  with  a  skinful. 
But  when  you  come  down  with  your  pence 

For  a  slice  of  their  scurvy  religion, 
I'll  leave  it  to  all  men  of  sense, 

But  you,  my  good  friend,  are  the  pigeon. 
Toroddle,  toroddle,  toroll. 

Then  come,  put  the  jorum  about, 

And  let  us  be  merry  and  clever, 
Our  hearts  and  our  liquors  are  stout, 

Here's  the  Three  Jolly  Pigeons  forever. 
Let  some  cry  up  woodcock  or  hare, 

Your  bustards,  your  ducks,  and  your  widgeons ; 
But  of  all  the  birds  in  the  air, 

Here's  a  health  to  the  Three  Jolly  Pigeons. 
Toroddle,  Toroddle,  toroll. 


WOMAN 

WHEN  lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly, 
And  firids  too  late  that  men  betray, 
What  charm  can  soothe  her  melancholy  ? 
What  art  can  wash  her  tears  away  ? 

The  only  art  her  guilt  to  cover, 
To  hide  her  shame  from  ev'ry  eye, 

To  give  repentance  to  her  lover, 
And  wring  his  bosom  is — to  die. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       369 


EVA  GORE-BOOTH 

(Living) 

FROM  EAST  TO  WEST 

GREAT  ships  glided  into  the  port : 
Surely  the  ships  of  the  gods  laden  with  dreams  : 
And  men  said,  "  It  is  well ; 
They  have  brought  their  dreams  to  us  as  of  old, 
And  now  new  tales  shall  be  told." 
But  the  gods  stood  on  the  decks  aghast ; 
They  saw  the  earth  an  iron  port ; 
The  air  a  silver  citadel, 
The  sky  a  fortress  built  of  solid  gold. 
Then  Prani  said,  "  Here  is  no  place  for  our  dreams." 
So  they  flung  the  great  sails  over  the  mast, 
And  sailed  out  slowly  across  the  seas, 
Till  they  came  to  a  twilight  land  in  the  west 
Where  old  unquiet  mysteries 
And  pale  discrowned  spirits  dwell ; 
Where  the  wind  sings  a  song  with  a  golden  lilt 
And  the  air  flows  by  in  silver  streams. 
There,  in  wild  wastes  of  the  world  they  built 
An  ivory  castle  for  their  dreams. 


T 


THE  LITTLE  WAVES  OF  BREFFNY 

HE  Grand  Road  from  the  mountain  goes  shining 

to  the  sea, 

And  there  is  traffic  in  it,  and  many  a  horse 
and  cart ; 


370      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

But  the  little  roads  of  Cloonagh  are  deeper  far  to  me, 
And    the   little   roads   of    Cloonagh   go   rambling 
through  my  heart. 


A  great  storm  from  the  ocean  goes  shouting  o'er  the 

hill, 

And  there's  glory  in  it,  and  terror  on  the  wind  ; 
But  the  haunted  air  of  twilight  is  very  strange  and 

still, 

And  the  little  winds  of  twilight  are  dearer  to  my 
mind. 


The  great  waves  of  the  Atlantic  sweep  storming  on 

their  way, 
Shining  green  and  silver  with  the  hidden  herring 

shoal ; 
But  the  Little  Waves  of  Breffny  have  drowned  my 

heart  in  spray, 

And   the  Little   Waves  of  Breffny  go  stumbling 
through  my  soul. 


TO  MAEVE 

NOT  for  thee,  O  Maeve,  is  the  song  of  the  Wan- 
dering Harper  sung, 
For  men  have  put  lies  on  thy  lips,  and  treason 

and  shrieking  fear  ; 
Because  thou  wert  brave,  they  say  thou  wert  bitter 

and  false  of  tongue  : 

They  mock  at  thy  weakness  now,  who  once  fled 
from  thy  flaming  spear. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       371 

Now  thou  art  cold  on  the  mountain,  buried  and  silent 

and  blind, 
Dumb  as  the  hills  and  the  stars,  blind  as  the  waves 

of  the  sea. 
A  clatter  of  treacherous  tongues  goes  sailing  along  the 

wind, 

And  many  an  evil  thought  is  spoken  in  hatred  of 
thee. 

Was  it  Fergus  whose  envious  breath  first  cast  o'er  thy 

shining  name 
A  poison  of  venomous  words  in  the  midst  of  the 

mourning  host, 
Till  thy  glory  shone  before  them  a  wicked  and  perilous 

flame, 

And  thy  beauty  seemed  but  a  snare,  thy  valor  an 
empty  boast  ? 

They  have  buried  thy  golden  deeds  under  the  cairn 

on  the  hill, 
And  no  one  shall  sing  of  thy  hero  soul  in  the  days 

to  come ; 
For  the  sky  is  blue  with  silence,  and  the  stars  are  very 

still, 

The  sea  lies  dreaming  about  thee  ;  even  the  moun- 
tains are  dumb. 


372      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 


A.  P.  GRAVES 

(1846-        ) 

AN  IRISH  GRACE 

FOR  beauty's  blaze 
Let  Pagans  praise 

The  features  of  Aglaia. 
Admire  agape 
The  maiden  shape 

Consummate  in  Thalia. 
Last  hail  in  thee 
Euphrosyne 

Allied  the  sov'ran  powers, 
Of  form  and  face  — 
No  heathen  Grace 

Can  match  this  Grace  of  ours. 

Blue  are  her  eyes,  as  though  the  skies, 
Were  ever  blue  above  them, 

And  dark  their  full  fringed  canopies 
As  if  the  night-fays  wove  them. 

Two  roses  kiss  to  mold  her  mouth, 

Her  ear's  a  lily  blossom, 
Her  blush  a  sunset  in  the  south, 

And  drifted  snow  her  bosom. 


o 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LTRICS       373 

Her  voice  is  gay,  but  soft  and  low, 

The  sweetest  of  all  trebles, 
A  silver  brook,  that  in  its  flow, 

Chimes  over  pearly  pebbles. 

A  happy  heart,  a  temper  bright, 

Her  radiant  smile  expresses  ; 
And,  like  a  wealth  of  golden  light, 

Rain  down  her  sunny  tresses. 


Earth's  desert  clime, 
Whose  sands  are  time, 

Will  prove  a  glad  oasis 
If  'tis  my  fate 
My  friends,  to  mate 

With  such  a  girl  as  Grace  is. 


FATHER  O'FLYNN 

F  priests  we  can  offer  a  charmin'  variety, 
Far  renowned  for  larnin'  and  piety  ; 
Still,  I'd  advance  ye  widout  impropriety, 

Father  O'Flynn  as  the  flower  of  them  all. 

CHORUS. 

Here's  a  health  to  you,  Father  O'Flynn, 
Sldinte,  and  sldinte,  and  sldinte  agin  ; 

Powerfulest  preacher,  and 

Tinderest  teacher,  and 
Kindliest  creature  in  ould  Donegal. 


374      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

Don't  talk  of  your  Provost  and  Fellows  of  Trinity 
Famous  forever  at  Greek  and  Latinity, 
Faix  !  and  the  divils  and  all  at  Divinity  — 
Father  O'Flynn  'd  make  hares  of  them  all  ! 
Come,  I  vinture  to  give  you  my  word, 
Niver  the  likes  of  his  logic  was  heard, 
Down  from  mythology 
Into  thayology, 
Troth  !  and  conchology  if  he'd  the  call. 

Och  !     Father   O'Flynn,   you've  the  wonderful  way 

wid  you, 

All  the  ould  sinners  are  wishful  to  pray  wid  you, 
All  the  young  childer  are  wild  for  to  play  wid  you, 
You've  such  a  way  wid  you,  Father  avick  ! 
Still,  for  all  you've  so  gentle  a  soul, 
Gad,  you've  your  flock  in  the  grandest  control, 
Checking  the  crazy  ones, 
Coaxin'  onaisy  ones, 
Liftin'  the  lazy  ones  on  wid  the  stick. 

And  though  quite  avoidin'  all  foolish  frivolity 
Still,  at  all  seasons  of  innocent  jollity, 
Where  was  the  play-boy  could  claim  an  equality 
At  comicality,  Father,  wid  you  ? 

Once  the  Bishop  looked  grave  at  your  jest, 
Till  this  remark  set  him  off  wid  the  rest : 
"  Is  it  lave  gaiety 
All  to  the  laity  ? 
Cannot  the  clargy  be  Irishmen  too  ?  ' ' 


I 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       375 
IRISH  EYES 

RISH  eyes  !     Irish  eyes  ! 

Eyes  that  most  of  all  can  move  me ! 
Lift  one  look 
From  my  book 

Through  your  lashes  dark,  and  prove  me 
In  my  worship,  oh,  how  wise  ! 

Other  orbs,  be  content ! 

In  your  honor,  not  dispraisal 
Most  I  prize 
Irish  eyes, 

Since  were  not  your  ebon,  hazel, 
Violet, — all  to  light  them  lent  ? 

Then  no  mischief,  merry  eyes  ! 
Stars  of  thought,  no  jealous  fancies 
Can  1  err 
To  prefer 

This  sweet  union  of  your  glances, 
Sparkling,  darkling  Irish  eyes  ? 


B 


KITTY  BHAN 

EFORE  the  first  ray  of  blushing  day, 

Who  should  come  but  Kitty  Bahn, 
With  her  cheek  like  the  rose  on  a  bed  of 


snows, 

And  her  bosom  beneath  like  the  sailing  swan. 
I  looked  and  looked  till  my  heart  was  gone. 


376      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

With  the  foot  of  the  fawn  she  crossed  the  lawn, 
Half  confiding  and  half  in  fear ; 

And  her  eyes  of  blue  they  thrilled  me  through, 
One  blessed  minute  ;  then,  like  the  deer, 
Away  she  darted,  and  left  me  here. 

O  sun,  you  are  late  at  your  golden  gate, 
For  you've  nothing  to  show  beneath  the  sky 

To  compare  to  the  lass,  who  crossed  the  grass 
Of  the  shamrock  field,  ere  the  dew  was  dry, 
And  the  glance  she  gave  me  as  she  went  by. 


LIKE  A  STONE  IN  THE  STREET 

I'M  left  all  alone  like  a  stone  at  the  side  of  the  street, 
With  no  kind  "  good  day  "  on  the  way  from  the 

many  I  meet. 
Still  with  looks  cold  and  high  they  go  by,  not  one 

brow  now  unbends, 

None  hold  out  his  hand  of  the  band  of  my  fair-weather 
friends. 

They  helped  me  to  spend  to  the  end  all  my  fine  shin- 
ing store, 

They  drank  to  my  health  and  my  wealth  till  both  were 
no  more. 

And  now  they  are  off  with  a  scoff  as  they  leave  me 
behind, 

"  When  you've  ate  the  rich  fruit,  underfoot  with  the 
bare  bitter  rind." 

There's  rest  deep  and  still  on  yon  hill  by  our  old 
Chapel's  side ; 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       377 

Where  I  laid  long  ago,  to  my  woe,  my  young  one 

year's  bride. 
Then  Ochone !  for  relief  from  my  grief  into  madness 

I  flew: 
Would   to  God  ere  that  day  in  the  clay  I'd  been 

covered  with  you. 


THE  BLUE,  BLUE  SMOKE 

OH,  many  and  many  a  time 
In  the  dim  old  days, 
When  the  chapel's  distant  chime 
Pealed  the  hour  of  evening  praise, 
I've  bowed  my  head  in  prayer  ; 

Then  shouldered  scythe  or  bill, 
And  traveled,  free  of  care, 
To  my  home  across  the  hill ; 
Whilst  the  blue,  blue  smoke 
Of  my  cottage  in  the  coom, 
Softly  wreathing, 
Sweetly  breathing, 
Waved  my  thousand  welcomes  home. 

For  oft  and  oft  I've  stood, 

Delighted  in  the  dew, 
Looking  down  across  the  wood, 

Where  it  stole  into  my  view  — 
Sweet  spirit  of  the  sod, 

Of  our  own  Irish  Earth, 
Going  gently  up  to  God 

From  the  poor  man's  hearth. 
O  the  blue,  blue  smoke 


378     THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 

Of  my  cottage  in  the  coom, 

Softly  wreathing, 

Sweetly  breathing 
My  thousand  welcomes  home. 


But  I  hurried  swiftly  on, 

When  Herself  from  the  door 
Came  swimming  like  a  swan 
Beside  the  Shannon  shore ; 
And  after  her  in  haste, 

On  pretty,  pattering  feet, 
Our  rosy  cherubs  raced 
Their  daddy  dear  to  meet ; 
Whilst  the  blue,  blue  smoke 
Of  my  cottage  in  the  coom, 
Softly  wreathing, 
Sweetly  breathing, 
Waved  my  thousand  welcomes  home. 


But  the  times  are  sorely  changed 

Since  those  dim  old  days, 
And  far,  far  I've  ranged 

From  those  dear  old  ways ; 
And  my  colleen's  golden  hair 

To  silver  all  has  grown, 
And  our  little  cherub  pair 
Have  cherubs  of  their  own  ; 
And  the  black,  black  smoke, 
Like  a  heavy  funeral  plume, 
Darkly  wreathing, 
Fearful  breathing, 
Crowns  the  city  with  its  gloom. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       379 

But  'tis  our  comfort  sweet 

Through  the  long  toil  of  life, 
That  we'll  turn  with  tired  feet 

From  the  noise  and  the  strife, 
And  wander  slowly  back 

In  the  soft  western  glow, 
Hand  in  hand  by  the  track 
That  we  trod  long  ago  ; 
Till  the  blue,  blue  smoke 
Of  my  cottage  in  the  coom, 
Softly  wreathing, 
Sweetly  breathing, 
Waves  our  thousand  welcomes  home. 


THE  IRISH  SPINNING-WHEEL 

SHOW  me  a  sight 
Bates  for  delight 
An  ould  Irish  wheel  wid  a  young 

Irish  girl  at  it. 
Oh,  no ! 

Nothing  you'll  show 
Aquals  her  sittin'  an'  takin'  a  twirl  at  it. 

Look  at  her  there  — 

Night  in  her  hair, 
The  blue  ray  of  day  from  her  eye  laughin'  out  on  us  ! 

Faix,  an'  a  foot, 

Perfect  of  cut, 
Peepin'  to  put  an  end  to  all  doubt  in  us. 

That  there's  a  sight 
Bates  for  delight 
An  ould  Irish  wheel  wid  a  young  Irish  girl  at  it  — 


380      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

Oh,  noJ 

Nothin'  you'll  show 
Aquals  her  sittin'  an*  takin'  a  twirl  at  it. 


See  !  the  lamb's  wool 

Turns  coarse  an'  dull 
By  them  soft,  beautiful  weeshy  white  hands  of  her. 

Down  goes  her  heel, 

Roun'  runs  the  wheel, 
Purrin'  wid  pleasure  to  take  the  commands  of  her. 

Then  show  me  a  sight 

Bates  for  delight 
An  ould  Irish  wheel  wid  a  young  Irish  girl  at  it. 

Oh,  no ! 

Nothin'  you'll  show 
Aquals  her  sittin'  an'  takin'  a  twirl  at  it. 

Talk  of  Three  Fates, 

Seated  on  sates, 
Spinnin'  and  shearin'  away  till  they've  done  for  me  1 

You  may  want  three 

For  your  massacree, 
But  one  Fate  for  me,  boys — and  only  the  one  for  me ! 

And  isn't  that  fate 

Pictured  com  plate  — 
An  ould  Irish  wheel  wid  a  young  Irish  girl  at  it? 

Oh,  no ! 

Nothin'  you'll  show 
Aquals  her  sittin'  an'  takin'  a  twirl  at  it.    * 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       381 

SHE  IS  MY  LOVE 

In  the  measure  of  tht  original  Gaelic  love  song. 

SHE  is  my  love  beyond  all  thought, 
Though    she    hath   wrought   my   deepest 
dole; 
Yet  dearer  for  the  cruel  pain 

Than  one  who  fain  would  make  me  whole. 

She  is  my  glittering  gem  of  gems, 

Who  yet  contemns  my  fortune  bright ; 

Whose  cheek  but  glows  with  redder  scorn 
Since  mine  has  worn  a  stricken  white. 

She  is  my  sun  and  moon  and  star, 
Who  yet  so  far  and  cold  doth  keep, 

She  would  not  even  o'er  my  bier 
One  tender  tear  of  pity  weep. 

Into  my  heart  unsought  she  came, 

A  wasting  flame,  a  haunting  care  j 
Into  my  heart  of  hearts,  ah,  why  ? 

And  left  a  sigh  forever  there. 


382      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 


C.  L.  GRAVES 

(Living) 

AD  ARISTIUM  FUSCUM  ! 

INTEGER  vitae  scleresque  purus 
Non  eget  Mauris  jaculus  neque  arcu 
Nee  venenatis  gravida  sagittis, 

Fusee,  pharetra, 
Sive  per  Syrtes  iter  aestuosas 
Sive  facturus  per  inhospitalem 
Caucasam  vel  quae  loca  fabulosus 
Lambet  Hydaspes. 

Nam  qua  me  silva  lupus  in  Sabina 

Dum  meam  Canto  Lalagen  et  ultra 
Terminum  curis  vagor  expeditis, 

Fugit  inermim, 

Quale  portatum  neque  militaris 
Daunias  latis  alet  aesculetis 
Nee  Juliae  tellus  general,  lionem 

Arida  nutrix. 

1  Horace,  Ode. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       383 


C.  L.  GRAVES 

(Living) 

AD  ARISTIDEN  OBFUSCATUM ' 

IF  clear  be  your  conscience,  my  Morley, 
No  bullet-proof  coat  you'll  require, 
Though  often  dispirited  sorely 
By  Erin's  Invincible  ire ; 
Nay  further,  discarding  coercion, 

You  may  with  impunity  fare 
On  a  midsummer  moonlight  excursion 
Unarmed  through  the  County  of  Clare. 

Look  at  me.     As  the  breeze  of  the  zephyr 

I  strolled  forth  of  late  to  enjoy, 
A  vicious  and  virulent  heifer  — 

I  was  humming  the  "  Dear  Irish  Boy  "— 
Came  fiercely  galumphing  beside  me ; 

But  suddenly,  soothed  by  my  lay, 
The  animal  amiably  eyed  me, 

And  cantered  serenely  away. 

1  From  The  Hawarden,  Horace. 


384     THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

Pone  me  pigris  ubi  nulla  campis 

Arbor  sestiva  recreatur  aura, 

Quod  latus  mundi  nebulae  malusque 

Jupiter  urget ; 

Pone  sub  curru  nimium  propinqui 
Solis  in  terra  domibus  negata 
Dulce  ridentum  Lalagen  amabo 

Dulce  loquentem. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       385 

O  wild  is  Hibernia's  Taurus  * 

And  Ceilings'  chimerical  Cow,* 
And  neither  demure  nor  decorous 

Is  the  Tammany  Boss,8  but  I  vow 
That  even  in  Chamberlain's  garden  * 

No  wickeder  brute  you'll  espy 
Than  the  horrible  heifer  of  Hawardeny 

Who  fled  from  my  Emerald  Eye. 

Were  I  bound  within  range  of  a  rifle 

In  Dopping's  implacable  grip ; 
Though  I  flew  to  the  summit  of  Eiffel 

To  give  Ashmead-Bartlett  the  slip ; 
Were  I  doomed  to  despair  on  Sahara, 

Or  sentenced  to  dine  with  the  Shah, 
Still  I'd  chant,  to  the  tune  of  Ta-ra-ra, 

The  praises  of  Erin-go-bragh. 

1  The  Irish  Bull. 

2  "  Three  acres  and  a  Cow." 

3  Tammany  Boss  or  the  Tiger. 

4  Mr.  A.  Chamberlain,  M.  P.,  was  once  gored  by  a  bull  in  his 
garden. 


386      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 


GEORGE  ARTHUR  GREENE 

(1853-        ) 

ON  GREAT  SUGARLOAF 

WHERE     Sugarloaf    with    bare    and    ruinous 
wedge 
Cleaves  the  gray  air  to  view  the  darkening 

sea, 

We  stood  on  high,  and  heard  the  north  wind  flee 
Through   clouds  storm-heavy   fallen   from  ledge  to 
ledge. 

Then  sudden   "Look!"   we  cried.     The  far  black 

edge 

Of  south  horizon  oped  in  sunbright  glee, 
And  a  broad  water  shone,  one  moment  free, 

Ere  darkness  veiled  again  the  wavering  sedge. 

Such  is  the  Poet's  inspiration,  still 

Too  evanescent !  coming  but  to  go : 
Such  the  great  passion  showing  good  in  ill, 

Quick  brightnesses,  love-lights  too  soon  burnt  low ; 
And  such  man's  life,  which  flashes  Heaven's  will 
Between  two  glooms  a  transitory  glow. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       387 

SPRING-TIME 

THE  winter  fleeteth  like  a  dream, 
The  rain  is  past  and  o'er ; 
The  sea  is  lit  with  sunny  gleam, 
The  hills  are  white  no  more. 
Full-flowered  the  lilac  hedges  stand, 

The  throstle  sings  all  day, 
But  there's  no  spring  in  all  the  land 
When  Eileen  is  away. 

Green  are  the  copses  on  the  hill ; 

The  cuckoo,  hid  from  sight, 
Haunts  all  the  ringing  valleys  still 

With  echoes  of  delight ; 
His  name  is  like  a  memory 

Repeated  day  by  day, 
But  memories  all  are  sad  to  me 

When  Eileen  is  away. 

The  yellow  cowslips  here  and  there 

Shake  in  the  balmy  breeze ; 
There  is  no  perfume  in  the  air, 

Far-brought  from  southern  seas ; 
There  is  a  brooding  melody 

In  forest,  hill,  and  bay, 
But  in  my  soul  no  harmony 

When  Eileen  is  away. 

The  birds  remember  in  their  song 

Their  dwellings  o'er  the  foam  ; 
The  cuckoo  will  not  tarry  long, 

The  swift  returneth  home : 


388      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURr  OF 

The  very  wind,  so  full  and  free, 

Forgets  not  ocean's  spray, 
And,  Eileen,  I  forget  not  thee 

When  thou  art  far  away. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       389 


GERALD  GRIFFIN 

(1803-1840) 

EILEEN  AROON1 

WHEN,  like  the  early  rose, 
Eileen  aroon  ! 
Beauty  in  childhood  blows, 
Eileen  aroon  ! 
When,  like  a  diadem, 
Buds  blush  around  the  stem, 
Which  is  the  fairest  gem  ? 
Eileen  aroon  ! 

Is  it  the  laughing  eye  ? 

Eileen  aroon  ! 
Is  it  the  timid  sigh  ? 

Eileen  aroon  f 
Is  it  the  tender  tone, 
Soft  as  the  stringed  heart's  moan  ? 
Oh  !  it  is  Truth  alone, 

Eileen  aroon  ! 

When,  like  the  rising  day, 

Eileen  aroon  ! 
Love  sends  his  early  ray, 

Eileen  aroon  ! 

1  EibAlin  a  ruin,  Eileen,  my  treasure. 


390     THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

What  makes  his  dawning  glow 
Changeless  through  joy  or  woe  ? — 
Only  the  constant  know, 
Eileen  aroon  ! 


I  know  a  valley  fair, 

Eileen  aroon  ! 
I  knew  a  cottage  there, 

Eileen  aroon  ! 
Far  in  that  valley's  shade 
I  knew  a  gentle  maid, 
Flower  of  a  hazel  glade, 

Eileen  aroon  .' 


Who  in  the  song  so  sweet  ? 

Eileen  aroon  / 
Who  in  the  dance  so  fleet  ? 

Eileen  aroon  ! 
Dear  were  her  charms  to  me, 
Dearer  her  laughter  free, 
Dearest  her  constancy, 

Eileen  aroon  ! 


Youth  must  with  time  decay, 

Eileen  aroon  ! 
Beauty  must  fade  away, 

Eileen  aroon  ! 
Castles  are  sacked  in  war, 
Chieftains  are  scattered  far, 
Truth  is  a  fixed  star, 

Eileen  aroon  / 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       391 
GILE  MACHREE 

LE  Machree, 

Sit  down  by  me, 
We  now  are  joined  and  ne'er  shall  sever ; 
This  hearth's  our  own, 
Our  hearts  are  one, 
And  peace  is  ours  forever ! 


When  I  was  poor, 

Your  father's  door 
Was  closed  against  your  constant  lover ; 

With  care  and  pain 

I  tried  in  vain 
My  fortunes  to  recover. 
I  said,  "  To  other  lands  I'd  roam, 

Where  fate  may  smile  on  me,  love ;  " 
I  said,  "  Farewell,  my  own  old  home  !  " 
And  I  said,  "  Farewell  to  thee,  love  !  " 

Sing,  Gile  machree,  etc. 

I  might  have  said, 

My  mountain  maid, 
Come  live  with  me,  your  own  true  lover  — 

I  know  a  spot, 

A  silent  cot, 

Your  friends  can  ne'er  discover, 
Where  gently  flows  the  waveless  tide 

By  one  small  garden  only  ; 
Where  the  heron  waves  his  wings  so  wide, 
And  the  linnets  sing  so  lonely  ! 

Sing,  Gile  machree,  etc. 


392      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

I  might  have  said, 
My  mountain  maid, 
A  father's  right  was  never  given 
True  hearts  to  curse 
With  tyrant  force 
That  have  been  blest  in  heaven. 
But  then  I  said,  "In  after  years, 

When  thoughts  of  home  shall  find  her, 
My  love  may  mourn  with  secret  tears 
Her  friends  thus  left  behind  her." 
Sing,  Gile  machree,  etc. 

Oh,  no,  I  said, 

My  own  dear  maid, 
For  me,  though  all  forlorn,  forever 

That  heart  of  thine 

Shall  ne'er  repine 
O'er  slighted  duty — never. 
From  home  and  thee,  though  wandering  far 

A  dreary  fate  be  mine,  love  ; 
I'd  rather  live  in  endless  war 

Than  buy  my  peace  with  thine,  love. 

Sing,  Gile  machree,  etc. ' 

Far,  far  away, 

By  night  and  day, 
I  toiled  to  win  a  golden  treasure ; 

And  golden  gains 

Repaid  my  pains 
In  fair  and  shining  measure. 
I  sought  again  my  native  land, 

Thy  father  welcomed  me,  love ; 
I  poured  my  gold  into  his  hand, 

And  my  guerdon  found  in  thee,  love. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       393 

Sing,  Gile  machrec, 

Sit  down  by  me, 
We  how  are  joined  and  ne'er  shall  sever ; 

This  hearth's  our  own, 

Our  hearts  are  one, 
And  peace  is  ours  forever ! 


HY-BRASAIL:  THE  ISLE  OF  THE  BLEST 

ON  the  ocean  that  hollows  the  rocks  where  ye 
dwell, 
A  shadowy  land  has  appeared,  as  they  tell ; 
Men  thought  it  a  region  of  sunshine  and  rest, 
And  they  called  it  Hy-Brasail,  the  isle  of  the  blest. 
From  year  unto  year  on  the  ocean's  blue  rim, 
The  beautiful  spectre  showed  lovely  and  dim ; 
The  golden  clouds  curtained  the  deep  where  it  lay, 
And  it  looked  like  an  Eden,  away,  far  away  1 

A  peasant  who  heard  of  the  wonderful  tale, 
In  the  breeze  of  the  Orient  loosened  his  sail ; 
From  Ara,  the  holy,  he  turned  to  the  west, 
For  though  Ara  was  holy,  Hy-Brasail  was  blest. 
He  heard  not  the  voices  that  called  from  the  shore  — 
-He  heard  not  the  rising  wind's  menacing  roar; 
Home,  kindred,  and  safety,  he  left  on  that  day; 
And  he  sped  to  Hy-Brasail,  away,  far  away  ! 

Morn  rose  on  the  deep,  and  that  shadowy  isle, 
O'er  the  faint  rim  of  distance,  reflected  its  smile ; 
Noon  burned  on  the  wave,  and  that  shadowy  shore 
Seemed  lovelily  distant,  and  faint  as  before  j 


394      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

Lone  evening  came  down  on  the  wanderer's  track, 
And  to  Ara  again  he  looked  timidly  back ; 
Oh  !  far  on  the  verge  of  the  ocean  it  lay, 
Yet  the  isle  of  the  blest  was  away,  far  away  ! 

Rash  dreamer,  return  !     O  ye  winds  of  the  main, 
Bear  him  back  to  his  own  peaceful  Ara  again. 
Rash  fool !  for  a  vision  of  fanciful  bliss, 
To  barter  thy  calm  life  of  labor  and  peace. 
The  warning  of  reason  was  spoke  in  vain  ; 
He  never  revisited  Ara  again  ! 
Night  fell  on  the  deep,  amidst  tempest  and  spray, 
And  he  died  on  the  waters  away,  far  away  ! 


THE  WAKE  OF  THE  ABSENT 

THE  dismal  yew  and  cypress  tall 
Wave  o'er  the  churchyard  lone, 
Where  rest  our  friends  and  fathers  all, 
Beneath  the  funeral  stone. 
Unvexed  in  holy  ground  they  sleep, 

Oh  !  early  lost !  o'er  thee 
No  sorrowing  friend  shall  ever  weep, 
Nor  stranger  bend  the  knee. 

Mo  Chuma  / l  lorn  am  I ! 
Hoarse  dashing  rolls  the  salt  sea  wave 
Over  our  perished  darling's  grave. 

The  winds  the  sullen  deep  that  tore 
His  death-song  chanted  loud, 

1  Mo  Chuma  /My  grief;  or,  Woe  is  me. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       395 

The  weeds  that  line  the  clifted  shore 

Were  all  his  burial  shroud. 
For  friendly  wail  and  holy  dirge, 

And  long  lament  of  love, 
Around  him  roared  the  angry  surge, 

The  curlew  screamed  above. 
Mo  Chuma  !  lorn  am  I ! 
My  grief  would  turn  to  rapture  now, 
Might  I  but  touch  that  pallid  brow. 

The  stream-born  bubbles  soonest  burst 

That  earliest  left  the  source ; 
Buds  earliest  blown  are  faded  first 

In  Nature's  wonted  course. 
With  guarded  pace  her  seasons  creep, 

By  slow  decay  expire ; 
The  young  above  the  aged  weep, 

The  son  above  the  sire. 

Mo  Chuma  !  lorn  am  I ! 
That  death  a  backward  course  should  hold, 
To  smite  the  young  and  spare  the  old. 


396      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 


STEPHEN  LUCIUS  GWYNN 

(Living} 

A  LAY  OF  OSSIAN  AND  PATRICK 


I 


TELL  you  an  ancient  story 
Learnt  on  an  Irish  strand 

Of  lonely  Ossian  returning 
Belated  from  fairyland 


To  a  land  grown  meek  and  holy, 
To  a  land  of  mass  and  bell, 

Under  the  hope  of  heaven, 
Under  the  dread  of  hell : 

It  tells  how  the  bard  and  warrior, 

Last  of  a  giant  race, 
Wrestled  a  year  with  Patrick, 

Answering  face  to  face, 

Mating  the  praise  of  meekness, 
With  vaunt  of  the  warrior  school, 

And  the  glory  of  God  the  Father 
With  the  glory  of  Finn  MacCoolj 

Until  at  last  the  hero, 

Through  fasting  and  through  prayer, 
Came  to  the  faith  of  Christians, 

And  turned  from  the  things  that  were. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       397 

When  the  holy  bread  was  broken, 

And  the  water  wet  on  his  brow, 
And  the  last  of  the  fierce  Fianna 

Had  spoken  the  Christian  vow, 

In  a  sudden  glory  Patrick 

Seeing  the  fierce  grown  mild, 
Laughed  with  joy  on  his  convert, 

Like  father  on  first-born  child. 

"  Well  was  for  you,  O  Ossian, 
You  came  to  the  light,"  he  said  ; 

"  And  now  I  will  show  you  the  torment 
From  which  to  our  God  you  fled." 

Then  with  a  pass  of  his  crozier 

He  put  a  spell  on  the  air, 
And  there  fell  a  mist  on  the  eyeballs 

Of  Ossian  standing  there. 

Shapes  loomed  up  through  the  darkness, 
And  "Now,  "says  the  saint,  "look  well; 

See  your  friends  the  Fianna, 
And  all  their  trouble  in  hell." 

Ossian  stared  through  the  darkness, 

Saw,  as  the  mist  grew  clear, 
Legions  of  swarth-hued  warriors 

Raging  with  sword  and  spear : 

Footmen,  huge  and  misshapen, 

Stiffened  with  snarling  ire  ; 
Chariots  with  hell-black  stallions 

Champing  a  spume  of  fire, 


398      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

And  all  of  the  grim-faced  battle, 
With  clash  and  yell  and  neigh, 

Dashed  on  a  knot  of  warriors 
Set  in  a  rank  at  bay. 

Ossian  looked,  and  he  knew  them, 
Knew  each  man  of  them  well, 

Knew  his  friends,  the  Fianna, 
There  in  the  pit  of  hell. 

There  was  his  very  father, 

Leader  of  all  their  bands, 
Finn,  the  terrible  wrestler, 
Griping  with  giant  hands ; 

Oscar  with  edged  blade  smiting, 
Caoilte  with  charging  lance, 

And  Diarmuid  poising  his  javelin, 
Nimble  as  in  the  dance ; 

Conan,  the  crop-eared  stabber, 
Aiming  a  slant-way  stroke, 

And  the  fiery  Lugach  leaping 
Where  the  brunt  of  battle  broke. 

But  in  front  of  all  by  a  furlong, 
There  in  the  hell-light  pale, 

Was  the  champion,  Gull  MacMorna, 
Winding  a  monstrous  flail. 

And  still  the  flail  as  he  swung  it 
Sang  through  the  maddened  air, 

Singing  the  deeds  of  heroes, 
A  song  of  the  days  that  were. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       399 

It  swung  with  the  shrilling  of  pipers, 

It  smote  with  a  thud  of  drums, 
It  leapt  and  it  whirled  in  battle, 

Crying,  "Gull  MacMorna  comes." 

It  leapt  and  it  smote,  and  the  devils 

Shrieked  under  every  blow ; 
With  the  very  wind  of  its  whistling 

Warriors  were  stricken  low. 

It  swept  a  path  through  the  army 

Wide  as  a  winter  flood, 
And  down  that  lane  the  Fianna 

Charged  in  a  wash  of  blood. 

Patrick  gazed  upon  Ossian  : 

But  Ossian  watched  to  descry 
The  surf  and  the  tide  of  battle 

Turn  as  in  days  gone  by. 

And  lo !  at  the  sudden  onslaught 

The  fighters  of  Eirie  made, 
And  under  the  flail  of  MacMorna, 

The  host  of  the  foemen  swayed, 

Broke ;  and  Ossian,  breathless, 

Heard  the  exultant  yell 
Of  his  comrades  hurling  the  devils 

Back  to  the  wall  of  hell. 

And  the  sword-blades  reaped  like  sickles, 

And  the  javelins  hissed  like  hail, 
And  louder  and  ever  louder 

Rose  the  song  of  the  flail, 


400      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

As  whirling  in  air  the  striker 
Sang  clear,  or  thudded  dull, — 

When,  woe  !  the  tug  '  on  a  sudden 
Snapped  in  the  grasp  of  Gull. 

Hand-staff  and  striker  parted  ; 

The  song  of  the  flail  was  dumb, — 
On  the  heart  of  Ossian,  listening, 

Fell  that  silence  numb. 

And  oh  !  for  a  time  uncounted 
He  watched  with  straining  eyes 

The  tide  of  the  devils'  battle 
Quicken  and  turn  and  rise. 

He  watched  the  Fianna's  onset 

Waver  and  hang  in  doubt, 
He  watched  his  leaderless  comrades 

Swept  in  a  struggling  rout. 

But  Gull,  with  a  shield  before  him, 

Crouched  on  the  battleground, 
And  there  in  the  track  of  slaughter 

Tore  at  what  he  found, 

Until  in  the  crash  and  tumult, 
And  dashed  with  a  bloody  rain, 

He  had  knotted  his  flail  together 
With  sinews  out  of  the  slain. 

1  Tug,  sometimes  called  trace,  the  leathern  thong  which  holds 
the  two  parts  of  a  flail  together. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       401 

Then,  as  the  gasping  Fianna 

Felt  their  endeavor  fail, 
Chanting  their  ancient  valor 

Rose  the  voice  of  the  flail. 

And  again  in  the  stagnant  ebbing 

Of  their  blood  began  to  flow 
The  flood  of  a  surging  courage, 

The  hope  of  a  crowning  blow ; 

And  the  heart  of  their  comrades  watching, 

Stirred  with  joy  to  behold 
Feats  of  his  bygone  manhood, 

Strokes  that  he  knew  of  old.- 

Again  he  beheld  the  stubborn 

Setting  of  targe  to  targe, 
Again  he  beheld  the  rally 

Swell  to  a  shattering  charge. 

And  surely  now  the  Fianna 

Must  slaughter  and  whelm  the  foe 

In  a  fierce  and  final  triumph, 
Lords  of  the  realm  below, 

As  they  leapt  in  a  loosened  phalanx, 

Climbing  on  heaps  of  slain  : 
— And  again  Gull's  wizard  weapon 

Flew  on  a  stroke  in  twain. 

For  a  time  and  times  uncounted 

Ossian  endured  the  sight 
Of  the  endless  swaying  tumult, 

The  ebb  and  flow  of  the  fight. 


402      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

His  face  grew  lean  with  sorrow, 
And  hunger  stared  from  his  eyes, 

And  the  laboring  breath  from  his  bosom 
Broke  in  heavy  sighs. 

Patrick  watched,  and  he  wondered, 

And  at  last  in  pity  spoke  : 
"  Vexed  is  your  look,  O  Ossian, 

As  your  very  heart  were  broke. 

"Courage,  O  new-made  Christian: 

Great  is  my  joy  in  you  : 
I  would  like  it  ill  on  a  day  of  grace 

My  son  should  have  aught  to  rue. 

"  Therefore  for  these  your  comrades 

I  give  you  a  wish  to-day 
That  shall  lift  them  out  of  their  torment 

Into  some  better  way. 

"  Speak  !  be  bold  in  your  asking, 
Christ  is  strong  to  redeem." 

— Ossian  turned  to  him  sudden, 
Like  one  awaked  from  a  dream. 

His  eye  was  fierce  as  an  eagle's, 
And  his  voice  had  a  trumpet's  ring, 

As  when  at  the  Fenian  banquets 
He  lifted  his  harp  to  sing. 

"  I  ask  no  help  of  the  Father, 

I  ask  no  help  of  the  Son, 
Nor  of  the  Holy  Spirit, 

Ever  Three  in  One. 


I 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       403 

"  This  for  my  only  asking, 

And  then  let  might  prevail,- 
Patrick,  give  Gull  MacMorna 

An  iron  tug  to  his  flail. ' ' 

Patrick  is  dead,  and  Ossian ; 

Gull  to  his  place  is  gone ; 
But  the  words  and  the  deeds  of  heroes 

Linger  in  twilight  on, — 

In  a  twilight  of  fireside  tellings 

Lit  by  the  poet's  lay, 
Lighting  the  gloom  of  hardship, 

The  night  of  a  needy  day. 

And  still  the  Gael,  as  he  listens 

In  a  land  of  mass  and  bell, 
Under  the  hope  of  heaven, 

Under  the  dread  of  hell, 

Thinks  long,  like  age-spent  Ossian, 
For  the  things  that  are   no  more, 

For  the  clash  of  meeting  weapons, 
And  the  mad  delight  of  war. 


IRELAND 

RELAND,  oh,  Ireland  !  centre  of  my  longings, 

Country  of  my  fathers,  home  of  my  heart ! 
Overseas  you  call  me  :    Why  an  exile  from  me  f 
Wherefore  sea-severed,  long  leagues  apart  ? 


404      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

As  the  shining  salmon,  homeless  in  the  sea  depths, 
Hears  the  river  call  him,  scents  out  the  land, 

Leaps  and  rejoices  in  the  meeting  of  the  waters, 
Breasts  weir  and  torrent,  nests  in  the  sand ; 

Lives  there  and  loves ;  yet  with  the  years  returning, 
Rusting  in  the  river,  pines  for  the  sea, 

Sweeps  back  again  to  the  ripple  of  the  tideway, 
Roamer  of  the  waters,  vagabond  and  free  — 

Wanderer  am  I  like  the  salmon  of  the  rivers ; 

London  is  my  ocean,  murmurous  and  deep, 
Tossing  and  vast ;  yet  through  the  roar  of  London 

Comes  to  me  thy  summons,  calls  me  in  sleep. 

Pearly  are  the  skies  in  the  country  of  my  fathers, 
Purple  are  thy  mountains,  home  of  my  heart. 

Mother  of  my  yearning,  love  of  all  my  longings, 
Keep  me  in  remembrance,  long  leagues  apart. 


MATER  SEVERA 

WHERE  the  huge  Atlantic  swings  heavy  water 
eastward, 
Ireland,  square  to  meet  it,  shoulders  off  the 

seas; 

Wild  are  all  her  coasts  with  stress  of  cliff  and  billow, 
On  her  northern  moorland  is  little  sheltered  ease. 

Well  is  with  the  salmon,  ranger  of  her  rivers : 
Well  is  with  the  mackerel  shoaling  in  each  bay, 

Dear  is  all  the  land  to  the  lonely  snipe  and  curlew : 
Ay,  but  for  its  manfolk !  a  bitter  lot  have  they. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       405 

Thankless  is  the  soil :  men  trench,  and  delve,  and  labor 
Black  and  spongy  peat  amid  barren  knowes  of  stone  : 

Then  to  win  a  living  overseas  they  travel, 

And  their  women  gather,  if  God  pleases,  what  was 
sown. 

Harvesters,  a-homing  from  the  golden  tilth  of  England, 
Where  they  sweat  to  cope  with  increase  of  teeming 
years, 

Find  too  oft  returning,  sick  with  others'  plenty, 
Sunless  autumn  dank  upon  green  and  spindling  ears. 

Or  a  tainted  south  wind  brings  upon  the  root-crop 
Stench  of  rotting  fibre  and  green  leaf  turning  black  : 

Famine,  never  distant,  stalks  nearer  now  and  nearer, 
Bids  them  rake  like  crows  amid  mussel- beds  and 
wrack. 

Bleak  and  gray  to  man  is  the  countenance  of  Nature ; 

Bleak  her  soil  below  him,  bleak  her  sky  above ; 
Wherefore,  then,  by  man  is  her  rare  smile  so  cherished  ? 

Paid  her  niggard  bounty  with  so  lavish  love  ? 

Not  the  slopes  of  Rhine  with  such  yearning  are  re- 
membered ; 

Not  your  Kentish  orchards,  not  your  Devon  lanes. 
'Tis  as  though  her  sons  for  that  ungentle  mother 

Knew  a  mother's  tenderness,  felt  a  mother's  pains. 

Many  an  outward-bound,  as  the  ship  heads  under  Tory, 
Clings  with  anguished  eyes  to  the   barren   Fanad 
shore. 


406      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 

Many  a  homeward-bound,  as  they  lift  the  frowning 

Foreland, 
Pants  to  leap  the  league  to  his  desolate  Gweedore. 

There  about  the  ways  God's  air  is  free  and  spacious : 
Warm  are  chimney-corners  there,  warm  the  kindly 
heart. 

There  the  soul  of  man  takes  root,  and  through  its  travail 
Grips  the  rocky  anchorage  till  the  life-strings  part. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       407 


CHARLES  GRAHAM  HALPINE 
(1829-1868) 

NOT  A  STAR  FROM  THE  FLAG  SHALL  FADE 

OCH  !  a  rare  ould  flag  was  the  flag  we  bore, 
'Twas  a  bully  ould  flag,  an'  nice ; 
It  had  sthripes  in  plenty,  an'  shtars  galore  — 
'Twas  the  broth  of  a  purty  device. 
Faix,  we  carried  it  South,  an'  we  carried  it  far, 

An'  around  it  our  bivouacs  made ; 
An'  we  swore  by  the  shamrock  that  never  a  shtar 
From  its  azure  field  should  fade. 

Ay,  this  was  the  oath,  I  tell  you  thrue, 

That  was  sworn  in  the  souls  of  our  Boys  in  Blue. 

The  fight  it  grows  thick,  an'  our  boys  they  fall, 

An'  the  shells  like  a  banshee  scream ; 
An'  the  flag — it  is  torn  by  many  a  ball, 

But  to  yield  it  we  never  dhream. 
Though  pierced  by  bullets,  yet  still  it  bears 

All  the  shtars  in  its  tatthered  field, 
An'  again  the  brigade,  like  to  one  man  swears, 

"  Not  a  shtar  from  the  flag  we  yield  !  " 

'Twas  the  deep,  hot  oath,  I  tell  you  thrue, 
That  lay  close  to  the  hearts  of  our  Boys  in  Blue. 

Shure,  the  fight  it  was  won  afther  many  a  year, 
But  two-thirds  of  the  boys  who  bore 


408      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURr  OF 

That  flag  from  their  wives  and  sweethearts  dear 

Returned  to  their  homes  no  more. 
They  died  by  the  bullet — disease  had  power, 

An1  to  death  they  were  rudely  tossed ; 
But  the  thought  came  warm  in  their  dying  hour, 
"  Not  a  shtar  from  the  flag  is  lost !  " 

Then  they  said  their  pathers  and  aves  through, 
An',  like  Irishmen,  died — did  our  Boys  in  Blue. 

But  now  they  tell  us  some  shtars  are  gone, 

Torn  out  by  the  rebel  gale ; 
That  the  shtars  we  fought  for,  the  states  we  won, 

Are  still  out  of  the  Union's  pale. 
May  their  sowls  in  the  dioul's  hot  kitchen  glow 

Who  sing  such  a  lyin'  shtrain ; 
By  the  dead  in  their  graves,  it  shall  not  be  so  — 

They  shall  have  what  they  died  to  gain  ! 

All  the  shtars  in  our  flag  shall  still  shine  through 
The  grass  growing  soft  o'er  our  Dead  in  Blue  ! 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       409 


BULMER  HOBSON 

(Living) 

THE  DELUGE 

ONCE  Manannan  Mac'  Lir  his  deep  blue  mantle 
cast 
Over  the  hearts  of  men,  and  over  all  the  land ; 
And  he  came  to  the  land  of  men,  borne  on  an  icy  blast. 
The  wind  drifted  the  waves,  and  the  waves  washed 

on  the  strand  — 
Till  water  and  earth  were  blent.     The  pale  sky  and 

the  sea 
Met  on  the  mountain  tops,  and  the  trembling  stars 

were  quenched. 
And  the  frightened  hosts  of  men  thought  to  the  west 

to  flee ; 
But  far  to  the  west,  and  further,  all  the  land  was 

drenched. 
Then  the  clans  of  men  were  drowned,  women  and 

warriors  strong ; 
Children  tossed  on  the  waves,  maidens  with  loosened 

hair 
Drifted  about  on  the  waters ;  and  the  sea  washed  for 

long 
Over  the  land  where  the  hosts  of  men  once  had  a 

dwelling  fair. 

But  Fintan  roamed  through  the  flood,  and  he  alone 
of  men 


4io      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 

Watched  the  rise  of  the  sea,  watched  it  tower  and 

fall, 

Ebb,  and  flow,  and  fail,  and  sink  from  the  land  again, 

Leaving  the  dead  in  its  track,  and  silence  over  all. 

Then  he  gathered  the  bodies  of  men,  gathered  them 

one  by  one 
From  the  desolated  land;   and  he  built  a  mighty 

pyre, 
And  he  laid  them  side  by  side,  wife,  and  father,  and 

son. 

And  there  in  the  starlight  pale  he  lit  the  funeral  fire. 
And   the   smoke-wreath  curled  away;    and  over  the 

moonlit  sea 
It  went,  in  the  dead  of  night,  till  it  came  to  the 

Isles  in  the  West. 
And  out  of  the  smoke  each  man  took  the  shape  that 

he  used  to  be ; 

And  there  they  dwell  on  the  sunset's  rim,  in  the 
sunset  roam  and  rest. 


ULAD 

IN  the  north  is  the  strength  of  the  wind,  of  the  whirl- 
wind ; 

In  the  south  there  are  murmuring  waters ; 
The  east  has  a  caoine  for  its  song ; 
In  the  west  is  strengthless  love. 

The  waters  grow  troubled  and  cease  soon, 
But  the  wind  is  a-sway  on  the  hills 
Forever,  forever. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       411 

The  caoine  sings  memories,  memories, 
Thoughts  and  deeds  that  are  dead. 
Oh,  1  sing  to  the  wind  and  the  storm  — 
The  storm  that  like  Fomor  running 
Leaps  from  hilltop  to  hilltop. 

The  waters  are  stirred  by  the  wind, 
And  love  drinks  strength  from  its  blowing : 
The  sorrow  of  memory  shrinks  back ; 
Like  a  shroud  it  is  dropped  and  forgotten. 

Memory  shorn  of  your  sorrow, 

Love  reborn  of  the  storm, 

Water  touched  by  the  wind, 

The  wind  is  your  master,  is  strongest ! 


4i2      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 


MICHAEL  HOGAN 

(1832-        ) 

DRAHERIN  O  MACHREE1 

I  GRIEVE  when  I  think  on  the  dear,  happy  days  of 
youth, 
When  all  the  bright  dreams  of  this  faithless  world 

seemed  truth ; 

When  I  strayed  thro'  the  woodland,  as  gay  as  a  mid- 
summer bee, 
In  brotherly  love  with  my  Draherin  O  Machree. 

Together  we  lay  in  the  sweet-scented  meadows  to  rest, 

Together  we  watched  the  gay  lark  as  he  sung  o'er  his 
nest, 

Together  we  plucked  the  red  fruit  of  the  fragrant  haw- 
tree, 

And  I  loved,  as  a  sweetheart,  my  Draherin  O  Machree  ! 

His  form  it  was  straight  as  the  hazel  that  grows  in  the 

glen, 
His  manners  were  courteous,  and    social,    and  gay 

amongst  men ; 
His  bosom  was  white  as  the  lily  on  summer's  green 

lea  — 
And  God's  brightest  image  was  Draherin  O  Machree ! 

1  Draherin  O  Machree,  little  brother  of  my  heart 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       413 

Oh  !  sweet  were  his  words  as  the  honey  that  falls  in 
the  night, 

And  his  young  smiling  face  like  May-bloom  was  fresh, 
and  as  bright ; 

His  eyes  were  like  dew  on  the  flower  of  the  sweet  ap- 
ple-tree ; 

My  heart's  spring  and  summer  was  Draherin  O 
Machree  ! 

He  went  to  the  wars  when  proud  England  united  with 
France ; 

His  regiment  was  first  in  the  red  battle-charge  to  ad- 
vance ; 

But  when  night  drew  its  veil  o'er  the  glory  and  life- 
wasting  fray, 

Pale,  bleeding,  and  cold  lay  my  Draherin  O  Machree  ! 

Oh  !  if  I  were  there,  I'd  watch  over  my  darling's  last 

breath, 
I'd  wipe  his  cold  brow,  and  I'd  soften  his  pillow  of 

death ; 
I'd  pour  the  hot  tears  of  my  heart's  melting  anguish 

o'er  thee ! 
Oh,  blossom  of  beauty  !  my  Draherin  O  Machree  ! 

Now  I'm  left  to  weep,  like  the  sorrowful  bird  of  the 

night, 
This  earth  and  its  pleasures  no  more  shall  afford  me 

delight ; 

The  dark  narrow  grave  is  the  only  sa'd  refuge  for  me, 
Since    I   lost   my   heart's  darling — my   Draherin   O 

Machree  1 


4H      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 


DOUGLAS  HYDE 

(1860-         ) 

FROM  A  POEM  BY  TEIGE  MAC  DAIRE 

From  the  Irish,  a  translation  in  the  meter  of  the  original 

"  9r  I  "MS  not  War  we  Want  to  Wage 

With  THomond  THinned  by  outrage. 
SLIGHT  not  Poets'  Poignant  spur 
Of  RIGHT  ye  Owe  it  hOnor. 

"  Can  there  Cope  a  Man  with  Me 
In  Burning  hearts  Bitterly, 
At  my  BLows  men  BLUSH  I  wis, 
Bright  FLUSH  their  Furious  Faces. 

"  Store  of  blister-Raising  Ranns 
These  are  my  Weighty  Weapons, 
Poisoned,  STriking  STRONG  through  men, 
They  Live  not  LONG  so  striken. 

"  SHelter  from  my  SHafts  or  rest 
Is  not  in  Furthest  Forest, 
Far  they  FALL,  words  Soft  as  Snow, 
No  WALL  can  WARD  my  arrow. 

"  To  QUench  in  QUarrels  good  deeds, 
To  Raise  up  WRongs  in  hundreds, 
To  NAIL  a  NAME  on  a  man, 
I  FAIL  not — FAME  my  weapon." 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       415 
I  SHALL  NOT  DIE  FOR  THEE 

From  the  Irish 

FOR  thee  I  shall  not  die, 
Woman  high  of  name  and  fame ; 
Foolish  men  thou  mayest  slay, 
I  and  they  are  not  the  same. 

Why  should  a  man  expire 

For  the  fire  of  any  eye  ? 
Slender  waist  or  swan-like  limb, 

Is  it  for  them  that  I  should  die  ? 

The  round  breasts,  the  fresh  skin, 
Crimson  cheeks,  hair  long  and  rich, 

Indeed,  indeed,  I  shall  not  die, 
Please  God,  not  I,  for  any  such. 

The  golden  hair,  the  forehead  thin, 
The  chaste  mien,  the  gracious  ease, 

The  rounded  heel,  the  languid  tone, 
Fools  alone  find  death  in  these. 

Thy  sharp  wit,  thy  perfect  calm, 
Thy  thin  palm-like  foam  of  sea; 

Thy  white  neck,  thy  blue  eye, 
I  shall  not  die  for  thee. 

Woman  graceful  as  the  swan, 

A  wise  man  did  nurture  me. 
Little  palm,  white  neck,  bright  eye, 

I  shall  not  die  for  ye. 


4i6      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 

LITTLE  CHILD,  I  CALL  THEE 

From  the  Irish 

LITTLE  child,  I  call  thee  fair, 
Clad  in  hair  of  golden  hue, 
Every  lock  in  ringlets  falling 
Down,  to  almost  kiss  the  dew. 

Slow  gray  eye  and  languid  mien, 
Brows  as  thin  as  stroke  of  quill, 

Cheeks  of  white  with  scarlet  through  them, 
Och  !  it's  through  them  I  am  ill. 

Luscious  mouth,  delicious  breath, 
Chalk-white  teeth,  and  very  small, 

Lovely  nose  and  little  chin, 

White  neck,  thin — she  is  swan-like  all. 

Pure  white  hand  and  shapely  finger, 
Limbs  that  linger  like  a  song  ; 

Music  speaks  in  every  motion 

Of  my  sea-mew  warm  and  young. 

Rounded  breasts  and  lime-white  bosom, 
Like  a  blossom,  touched  of  none, 

Stately  form  and  slender  waist, 
Far  more  graceful  than  the  swan. 

Alas  for  me  !     I  would  I  were 

With  her  of  the  soft-fingered  palm, 

In  Waterford  to  steal  a  kiss, 

Or  by  the  Liss  whose  airs  are  balm. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       417 
MY  GRIEF  ON  THE  SEA » 

Translated  by  Douglas  Hyde 


M 


Y  grief  on  the  sea, 

How  the  waves  of  it  roll  ! 
For  they  heave  between  me 
And  the  love  of  my  soul ! 


Abandoned,  forsaken, 

To  grief  and  to  care, 
Will  the  sea  ever  waken 

Relief  from  despair? 

My  grief  and  my  trouble  ! 

Would  he  and  I  were 
In  the  province  of  Leinster 

Or  county  of  Clare. 

Were  I  and  my  darling  — 
Oh,  heart-bitter  wound  !  — 

On  board  of  the  ship 
For  America  bound. 

1  Literally  :  My  grief  on  the  sea,  It  is  it  that  is  big.  It  is  it 
that  is  going  between  me  And  my  thousand  treasures.  I  was 
left  at  home  Making  grief,  Without  any  hope  of  (going)  over 
sea  with  me,  Forever  and  aye.  My  grief  that  I  am  not,  And 
my  white  moorneen,  In  the  province  of  Leinster  Or  County  of 
Clare.  My  sorrow  1  am  not,  And  my  thousand  loves  On  board 
of  a  ship  Voyaging  to  America.  A  bed  of  rushes  Was  under 
me  last  night  And  I  threw  it  out  With  the  heat  of  the  day.  My 
love  came  To  my  side,  Shoulder  to  shoulder  And  mouth  on 
mouth. — Love  Songs  of  Connacht, 


4i8      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

On  a  green  bed  of  rushes 

All  last  night  I  lay, 
And  I  flung  it  abroad 

With  the  heat  of  the  day. 

And  my  love  came  behind  me  — 
He  came  from  the  South ; 

His  breast  to  my  bosom. 
His  mouth  to  my  mouth. 


MY  LOVE— OH!  SHE  IS  MY  LOVE 

From  the  Irish 

SHE  casts  a  spell — oh  !  casts  a  spell, 
Which  haunts  me  more  than  I  can  tell, 
Dearer,  because  she  makes  me  ill, 
Than  who  would  will  to  make  me  well. 

She  is  my  store — oh  !  she  my  store, 
Whose  gray  eye  wounded  me  so  sore, 
Who  will  not  place  in  mine  her  palm, 
Who  will  not  calm  me  any  more. 

She  is  my  pet — oh  !  she  my  pet, 
Whom  I  can  never  more  forget, 
Who  would  not  lose  by  me  one  moan, 
Nor  stone  upon  my  cairn  set. 

She  is  my  roon J — oh  !  she  my  roon, 
Who  tells  me  nothing,  leaves  me  soon  . 
Who  would  not  lose  by  me  one  sigh, 
Were  death  and  I  within  one  room. 

1  Ruin  :  secret  treasure,  love. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LTRICS       419 

She  is  my  dear — oh  !  she  my  dear, 
Who  cares  not  whether  I  be  here, 
Who  would  not  weep  when  I  am  dead, 
Who  makes  me  shed  the  silent  tear. 


Hard  my  case — oh  !  hard  my  case. 
How  have  I  lived  so  long  a  space  ? 
She  does  not  trust  me  any  more, 
But  1  adore  her  silent  face. 


She  is  my  choice — oh  !  she  my  choice, 
Who  never  made  me  to  rejoice, 
Who  caused  my  heart  to  ache  so  oft,  • 
Who  put  no  softness  in  her  voice. 


Great  my  grief — oh  !  great  my  grief, 
Neglected,  scorned  beyond  belief, 
By  her  who  looks  at  me  askance, 
By  her  who  grants  me  no  relief. 


She's  my  desire — oh  !  my  desire, 
More  glorious  than  the  bright  sun's  fire ; 
Who  were  than  wind-blown  ice  more  cold, 
Had  I  the  boldness  to  sit  by  her. 


She  it  is  who  stole  my  heart, 
But  left  a  void  and  aching  smart ; 
And  if  she  soften  not  her  eye, 
Then  life  and  I  shall  shortly  part. 


420      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURT  OF 
O  WERE  YOU  ON  THE  MOUNTAIN? 

From  the  Irish 

Owere  you  on  the  mountain,  and  saw  you  my 
Love? 
And  saw  you  my  own  one,  my  queen  and  my 

dove? 
And  saw  you  the  maiden  with  the  step  firm  and  free? 

0  say,  was  she  pining  in  sorrow  like  me  ? 

1  was  up  on  the  mountain  and  saw  there  your  Love, 

I  saw  there  your  own  one,  your  queen  and  your  dove; 
1  saw  there  the  maiden  with  the  step  firm  and  free, 
And  she  was  not  pining  in  sorrow  like  thee. 


RINGLETED  YOUTH  OF  MY  LOVE 

Translated  by  Douglas  Hyde  in  "  Love  Songs  of  Connacht" 

RINGLETED  youth  of  my  love, 
With  thy  locks  bound  loosely  behind  thee, 
You  passed  by  the  road  above, 
But  you  never  came  in  to  find  me ; 
Where  were  the  harm  for  you 

If  you  came  for  a  little  to  see  me; 
Your  kiss  is  a  wakening  dew 
Were  I  ever  so  ill  or  so  dreamy. 

If  I  had  golden  store 

I  would  make  a  nice  little  boreen 
To  lead  straight  up  to  his  door, 

The  door  of  the  house  of  my  storeen ; 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       421 

Hoping  to  God  not  to  miss 

The  sound  of  his  footfall  in  it, 
I  have  waited  so  long  .for  his  kiss 

That  for  days  I  have  slept  not  a  minute. 

I  thought,  O  my  love  !  you  were  so  — 

As  the  moon  is,  or  sun  on  a  fountain, 
And  I  thought  after  that  you  were  snow, 

The  cold  snow  on  top  of  the  mountain ; 
And  I  thought  after  that  you  were  more 

Like  God's  lamp  shining  to  find  me, 
Or  the  bright  star  of  knowledge  before, 

And  the  star  of  knowledge  behind  me. 

You  promised  me  high  heeled  shoes, 

And  satin  and  silk,  my  storeen, 
And  to  follow  me,  never  to  lose, 

Though  the  ocean  were  round  us  roaring ; 
Like  a  bush  in  a  gap  in  a  wall 

I  am  now  left  lonely  without  thee, 
And  this  house,  I  grow  dead  of,  is  all 

That  I  see  around  or  about  me. 


THE  BROW  OF  NfcFIN 

Translated  by  Douglas  Hyde  in  "  Love  Songs  of  Connacht " 

DID  I  stand  on  the  bald  top  of  Nefin 
And  my  hundred-times  loved  one  with  me, 
We  should  nestle  together  as  safe  in 
Its  shade  as  the  birds  on  a  tree. 
From  your  lips  such  a  music  is  shaken, 


422      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURr  OF 

When  you  speak  it  awakens  my  pain, 
And  my  eyelids  by  sleep  are  forsaken, 
And  I  seek  for  my  slumber  in  vain. 


But  were  I  on  the  fields  of  the  ocean 

I  should  sport  on  its  infinite  room, 
I  should  plow  through  the  billows'  commotion 

Though  my  friends  should  look  dark  at  my  doom. 
For  the  flower  of  all  maidens  of  magic 

Is  beside  me  where'er  I  may  be, 
And  my  heart  like  a  coal  is  extinguished, 

Not  a  woman  takes  pity  on  me. 


How  well  for  the  birds  in  all  weather, 

They  rise  up  on  high  in  the  air, 
And  then  sleep  upon  one  bough  together 

Without  sorrow  or  trouble  or  care ; 
But  so  it  is  not  in  this  world 

For  myself  and  my  thousand-times  fair, 
For,  away,  far  apart  from  each  other, 

Each  day  rises  barren  and  bare. 


Say,  what  dost  thou  think  of  the  heavens 

When  the  heat  overmasters  the  day, 
Or  what  when  the  steam  of  the  tide 

Rises  up  in  the  face  of  the  bay  ? 
Even  so  is  the  man  who  has  given 

An  inordinate  love-gift  away, 
Like  a  tree  on  a  mountain  all  riven 

Without  blossom  or  leaflet  or  spray. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       423 
THE  RED  MAN'S  WIFE 

Translated  by  Douglas  Hyde  in  "  Love  Songs  of  Convacfit " 

)r  |"^IS  what  they  say, 

Thy  little  heel  fits  in  a  shoe, 
'Tis  what  they  say, 
Thy  little  mouth  kisses  well,  too. 
'Tis  what  they  say, 

•  Thousand  loves  that  you  leave  me  to  rue  j 
That  the  tailor  went  the  way 

That  the  wife  of  the  Red  man  knew. 


Nine  months  did  I  spend 

In  a  prison  closed  tightly  and  bound ; 
Bolts  on  my  smalls  * 

And  a  thousand  locks  frowning  around ; 
But  o'er  the  tide 

I  would  leap  with  the  leap  of  a  swan, 
Could  I  once  set  my  side 

By  the  bride  of  the  red-haired  man. 

I  thought,  O  my  life, 

That  one  house  between  us  love  would  be ; 
And  I  thought  I  would  find 

You  once  coaxing  my  child  on  your  knee ; 
But  now  the  curse  of  the  High  One 

On  him  let  it  be, 
And  on  all  of  the  band  of  the  liars 

Who  put  silence  between  you  and  me. 

1  There  are  three  "  smalls,"  the  wrists,  elbows,  and  ankles. 
In  Irish  romantic  literature  we  often  meet  mention  of  men  being 
bound  "  with  the  binding  of  the  three  smalls." 


424      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURT  OF 

There  grows  a  tree  in  the  garden 

With  blossoms  that  tremble  and  shake, 
I  lay  my  hand  on  its  bark 

And  I  feel  that  my  heart  must  break. 
On  one  wish  alone 

My  soul  through  the  long  months  ran, 
One  little  kiss 

From  the  wife  of  the  Red-haired  man. 

But  the  day  of  doom  shall  come, 

And  hills  and  harbors  be  rent; 
A  mist  shall  fall  on  the  sun 

From  the  dark  clouds  heavily  sent ; 
The  sea  shall  be  dry, 

And  earth  under  mourning  and  ban  ; 
Then  loud  shall  he  cry 

For  the  wife  of  the  Red-haired  man. 


THE  SIGN  OF  THE  CROSS  FOREVER 

I  came  across  this  religious  poem  in  Irish  among  the  manu- 
scripts of  William  Smith  O'Brien,  the  Irish  Leader,  at  Caher- 
moyle.  It  was  attributed  to  a  Father  O'Meehan. — Douglas 
Hyde  in  "  Religious  Songs  of  Connacht.'" 

FROM  the  foes  of  my  land,  from  the  foes  of  my 
faith, 
From  the  foes  who  would  us  dissever, 

O  Lord,  preserve  me  in  life,  in  death, 
With  the  Sign  of  the  Cross  forever. 

By  death  on  the  Cross  was  the  race  restored, 

For  vain  was  our  endeavor ; 
Henceforward  blessed,  O  blessed  Lord, 

Be  the  Sign  of  the  Cross  forever. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       425 

Rent  were  the  rocks,  the  sun  did  fade 

The  darkening  world  did  quiver, 
When  on  the  tree  our  Saviour  made 

The  Sign  of  the  Cross  forever. 

Therefore  I  mourn  for  him  whose  heart 

Shall  neither  shrink  nor  shiver, 
Whose  tears  of  sorrow  refuse  to  start 

At  the  Sign  of  the  Cross  forever. 

Swiftly  we  pass  to  the  unknown  land, 

Down  like  an  ebbing  river, 
But  the  devils  themselves  cannot  withstand 

The  Sign  of  the  Cross  forever. 

When  the  hour  shall  come  that  shall  make  us  dust, 

When  the  soul  and  the  body  sever, 
Fearful  the  fear  if  we  may  not  trust 

In  the  Sign  of  the  Cross  forever. 


426      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 


JOHN  KELLS  INGRAM 
(1823-        ) 

THE  MEMORY  OF  THE  DEAD 

WHO  fears  to  speak  of  Ninety-Eight  ? 
Who  blushes  at  the  name  ? 
When  the  cowards  mock  the  patriot's  fate, 
Who  hangs  his  head  for  shame? 
He's  all  a  knave  or  half  a  slave 
Who  slights  his  country  thus : 
But  a  true  man,  like  you,  man, 
Will  fill  your  glass  with  us. 

We  drink  the  memory  of  the  brave, 

The  faithful  and  the  few  — 
Some  lie  far  off  beyond  the  wave, 

Some  sleep  in  Ireland,  too ; 
All,  all  are  gone — but  still  lives  on 

The  fame  of  those  who  died ; 
And  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

Remember  them  with  pride. 

Some  on  the  shores  of  distant  lands 

Their  weary  hearts  have  laid, 
And  by  the  stranger's  heedless  hands 

Their  lonely  graves  were  made; 
But  though  their  clay  be  far  away 

Beyond  the  Atlantic  foam, 
In  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

Their  spirit's  still  at  home. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       427 

The  dust  of  some  is  Irish  earth ; 

Among  their  own  they  rest ; 
And  the  same  land  that  gave  them  birth 

Has  caught  them  to  her  breast ; 
And  we  will  pray  that  from  their  clay 

Full  many  a  race  may  start 
Of  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

To  act  as  brave  a  part. 

They  rose  in  dark  and  evil  days 

To  right  their  native  land  ; 
They  kindled  here  a  living  blaze 

That  nothing  shall  withstand. 
Alas  !  that  Might  can  vanquish  Right  — 

They  fell,  and  passed  away ; 
But  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

Are  plenty  here  to-day. 

Then  here's  their  memory — may  it  be 

For  us  a  guiding  light, 
To  cheer  our  strife  for  liberty, 

And  teach  us  to  unite  ! 
Through  good  and  ill,  be  Ireland's  still, 

Though  sad  as  theirs,  your  fate ; 
And  true  men,  be  you,  men, 

Like  those  of  Ninety-Eight. 


428      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSUR1"  OF 


THOMAS  CAULFIELD  IRWIN 

(1823-1892) 

A  WINDOW  SONG 

WITHIN  the  window  of  this  white, 
Low,  ivy-roofed,  retired  abode, 
We  look  through  sunset's  sinking  light 
Along  the  lone  and  dusty  road 
That  leads  unto  the  river's  bridge, 

Where  stand  two  sycamores  broad  and  green, 
Whence  from  their  rising  grassy  ridge 

The  low  rays  lengthen  shade  and  sheen. 
The  village  panes  reflect  the  glow, 
And  all  about  the  scene  is  still, 
Save,  by  the  foamy  dam  below, 

The  drumming  wheel  of  the  whitewashed  mill 

A  radiant  quiet  fills  the  air, 

And  gleam  the  dews  along  the  turf: 

While  the  great  wheel,  bound 

On  its  drowsy  round, 
Goes  snoring  through  the  gusts  of  surf. 

A-south,  beyond  the  hamlet,  lie 

The  low,  blue  hills  in  mingling  mist, 

With  furl  of  cloud  along  the  sky, 
And  ravines  rich  as  amethyst, 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       429 

And  mellow  edges  golden-ored 

As  sinks  the  round  sun  in  the  flood, 
And  high  up  wings  the  crow  line  toward 

Old  turrets  in  the  distant  wood ; 
Awhile  from  some  twilighted  roof 

The  blue  smoke  rises  o'er  the  thatch ; 
By  cots  along  the  green  aloof 

Some  home-come  laborer  lifts  the  latch ; 

Or  housewife  sings  her  child  to  sleep, 
Or  calls  her  fowl-flock  from  the  turf, 

While  the  mill-wheel,  bound 

On  its  drowsy  round, 
Goes  snoring  through  the  gusts  of  surf. 

Still  at  our  open  window,  where 

Gleams  on  the  leaves  the  lamp  new  lit, 
For  hours  we  read  old  books,  and  share 

Their  thoughts  and  pictures,  love  and  wit : 
As  midnight  nears,  its  quiet  ray 

Thrown  on  the  garden's  hedges  faint, 
Pales,  as  the  moon,  from  clouds  of  gray, 

Looks  down  serenely  as  a  saint. 
We  hear  a  few  drops  of  a  shower, 

Laying  the  dust  for  morning  feet, 
Patter  upon  the  corner  bower, 

Then,  ceasing,  send  an  air  as  sweet. 

And  as  we  close  the  window  down, 
And  close  the  volumes  read  so  long, 

Even  the  wheel's  snore 

Is  heard  no  more, 
And  scarce  the  runnel's  swirling  song. 


430      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURT  OF 
THE  EMIGRANT'S  VOYAGE 

EVENING 

• 

THE  white  sails  are  filled,  and  the  wind  from  the 
shore 
Blows  sad  from  the  hills  we  shall  visit  no  more ; 
And  our  ship  slowly  moves  o'er  the  ocean  at  rest, 
From  the  land  of  our  hearts,  in  the  light  of  the  West. 

Though  few  are  the  friends  on  the  land's  sinking  rim, 
Yet  our  eyes,  straining  into  the  sunset,  grow  dim  ; 
We  are  leaving  forever  the  walks  where  we  strayed, 
And  the  graves  where  the  dust  of  our  dearest  is  laid. 

Now  twilight  has  covered  the  isle  in  its  gloom ; 
Dark  the  village,  and  lost  the  old  place  of  the  tomb ; 
And  we  see  but  yon  dusk  mountain  line  in  the  light, 
We  have  watched  from  our  cottage  doors  many  a 
night. 

Ah  !  the  stars  on  the  ocean  are  glimmering  nigh, 
Like  the  eyes  of  the  dead  looking  up  at  the  sky ; 
And  our  ship  speeds  along,  as  heart-wearied  we  sleep, 
'Mid  the  waters  of  God  and  the  clouds  of  the  deep. 

MORNING 

Full  stretched  are  the  sails,  dim  and  dewy  the  spars ; 
On  the  spray-wetted  deck  falls  the  light  of  the  stars, 
And  the  blue  lonely  morning  breaks  coldly,  as  we, 
In  the  wind,  cleave  the  hurrying  heaps  of  the  sea. 

All  alone  in  the  world,  without  riches  below, 
We  have  memories  that  wander  wherever  we  go ; 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       431 

And  wild  sorrow  reasons,  'mid  tears  falling  fast, 
That  the  present  may  still  draw  its  light  from  the  past. 

Oft  of  mornings  to  come  from  our  windows  we'll 

bend, 

And  look  on  the  sun,  that  bright  following  friend ; 
Still  fondly  remembering  his  glory  has  shone 
On  the  land  that  we  love,  and  the  friends  who  are 

gone. 

Oft  at  even,  when  labor  is  o'er  for  a  while, 
Will  our  hearts  travel  back  to  our  own  blessed  isle, 
Across  the  great  sea  we  have  traversed  in  gloom, 
And  hover  in  prayer  by  the  old  lonely  tomb. 

Yes,  spirits  beloved,  though  your  home  were  as  far 
From  our  world-wearied  hearts  as  the  loneliest  star, 
Our  prayers  shall  arise  for  ye  from  the  far  clime, 
O  many  and  many  and  many  a  time  ! 

We  will  hear  the  sweet  voice  that  on  earth  sounds  no 

more 
Still    murmuring    for   us   from    the   heaven's   happy 

shore ; 

We  will  hear  those  dim  footsteps  at  gray  silent  morn, 
That  paced  our  lost  home  long  before  we  were  born. 

Old  scenes,  where  we  wandered  together,  will  rise ;  — 
The  fair  window  landscape,  the  soft,  rainy  skies, 
The  old   green-patched   hill,   where  the  dewy  light 

plays, 
Where  your  shadows  oft  passed  on  the  old  summer 

days. 


432      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

Not  alone,  not  alone,  will  we  labor  and  roam : 
\Vhere  your  memories  linger  we  still  have  a  home, 
And  shall  still  tread,  in  fancy,  the  paths  you  have 

trod, 
Until  death  leads  us  up  to  our  dear  ones  and  God. 


THE  POTATO-DIGGER'S  SONG 

COME,  Connal,  acushla,  turn  the  clay, 
And  show  the  lumpers  the  light,  gossoon  ! 
For  we  must  toil  this  autumn  day, 
With  Heaven's  help,  till  rise  of  the  moon. 
Our  corn  is  stacked,  our  hay  secure, 

Thank  God  !  and  nothing,  my  boy,  remains, 
But  to  pile  the  potatoes  safe  on  the  flure, 
Before  the  coming  November  rains. 
The  peasant's  mine  is  his  harvest  still ; 
So  now,  my  lads,  let's  work  with  a  will ; — 
Work  hand  and  foot, 
Work  spade  and  hand, 
Work  spade  and  hand 

Through  the  crumbly  mould; 
The  blessed  fruit 
That  grows  at  the  root 
Is  the  real  gold 
Of  Ireland. 

Och  !  I  wish  that  Maurice  and  Mary  dear 
Were  singing  beside  us  this  soft  day ; 

Of  course  they're  far  better  off  than  here : 
But  whether  they're  happier  who  can  say? 

I've  heard  when  it's  morn  with  us,  'tis  night 
With  them  on  the  far  Australian  shore ; — 

Well,  Heaven  be  about  them  with  visions  bright, 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       433 

And  send  them  childer  and  money  galore. 
With  us  there's  many  a  mouth  to  fill, 
And  so,  my  boy,  let's  work  with  a  will; — 
Work  hand  and  foot, 
Work  spade  and  hand, 
Work  spade  and  hand 

Through  the  brown  dry  mould ; 
The  blessed  fruit 
That  grows  at  the  root 
Is  the  real  gold 
Of  Ireland. 

Ah,  then,  Paddy  O'Reardan,  you  thundering  Turk, 

Is  it  coorting  you  are  in  the  blessed  noon. 
Come  over  here,  Katty,  and  mind  your  work, 

Or  I'll  see  if  your  mother  can't  change  your  tune. 
Well,  youth  will  be  youth,  as  you  know,  Mike, 

Sixteen  and  twenty  for  each  were  meant ; 
But,  Pat,  in  the  name  of  the  fairies,  avick, 
Defer  your  proposals  till  after  Lent ; 

And  as  love  in  this  country  lives  mostly  still 
On  potatoes — dig,  boy,  dig  with  a  will ; — 
Work  hand  and  foot, 
Work  spade  and  hand, 
Work  spade  and  hand 

Through  the  harvest  mould  ; 
The  blessed  fruit 
That  grows  at  the  root 
Is  the  real  gold 
Of  Ireland. 

Down  the  bridle  road  the  neighbors  ride, 

Through  the  light  ash  shade,  by  the  wheaten  sheaves; 
And  the  children  sing  on  the  mountainside 


434      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURT  OF 

In  the  sweet  blue  smoke  of  the  burning  leaves. 
As  the  great  sun  sets  in  glory  furled, 

Faith,  it's  grand  to  think,  as  I  watch  his  face, 
As  he  never  sets  on  the  English  world, 
He  never,  lad,  sets  on  the  Irish  race. 

In  the  West,  in  the  South,  new  Irelands  still 
Grow  up  in  his  light.     Come,  work  with  a  will  ;• 
Work  hand  and  foot, 
Work  spade  and  hand, 
Work  spade  and  hand 

Through  the  native  mould ; 
The  blessed  fruit 
That  grows  at  the  root 
Is  the  real  gold 
Of  Ireland. 

But  look  ! — the  round  moon,  yellow  as  corn, 

Comes  up  from  the  sea  in  the  deep  blue  calm; 
It  scarcely  seems  a  day  since  morn  ; — 

Well,  the  heel  of  the  evening  to  you,  ma'am  ! 
God  bless  the  moon  !  for  many  a  night, 

As  I  restless  lay  on  a  troubled  bed, 
When  rent  was  due,  her  quietest  light 

Has  flattered  with  dreams  my  poor  old  head. 
But  see — the  basket  remains  to  fill : 
Come,  girls,  be  alive ; — boys,  dig  with  a  will  ;- 
Work  hand  and  foot, 
Work  spade  and  hand, 
Work  spade  and  hand 

Through  the  moonlit  mould ; 
The  blessed  fruit 
That  grows  at  the  root 
Is  the  real  gold 
Of  Ireland. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       435 


LIONEL  JOHNSON 
(1867-1902) 

THE  DARK  ANGEL 

DARK  Angel,  with  thine  aching  lust 
To  rid  the  world  of  penitence : 
Malicious  Angel,  who  still  dost 
My  soul  such  subtile  violence  ! 

Because  of  thee,  no  thought,  no  thing, 

Abides  for  me  undesecrate  : 
Dark  Angel,  ever  on  the  wing, 

Who  never  readiest  me  too  late  ! 

When  music  sounds,  then  changest  thou 

Its  silvery  to  a  sultry  fire ; 
Nor  will  thine  envious  heart  allow 

Delight  untortured  by  desire. 

Through  thee,  the  gracious  Muses  turn  • 

To  Furies,  O  mine  Enemy  ! 
And  all  the  things  of  beauty  burn 

With  flames  of  evil  ecstasy. 

Because  of  thee,  the  land  of  dreams 
Becomes  a  gathering-place  of  fears; 

Until  tormented  slumber  seems 
One  vehemence  of  useless  tears. 


436      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

When  sunlight  glows  upon  the  flowers, 
Or  ripples  down  the  dancing  sea, 

Thou  with  thy  troop  of  passionate  powers 
Beleaguerest,  bewilderest  me. 

Within  the  breath  of  autumn  woods, 

Within  the  winter  silences, 
Thy  venomous  spirit  stirs  and  broods, 

O  Master  of  impieties  ! 

The  ardor  of  red  flame  is  thine, 
And  thine  the  steely  soul  of  ice ; 

Thou  poisonest  the  fair  design 
Of  Nature  with  unfair  device. 

Apples  of  ashes,  golden  bright ; 
Waters  of  bitterness,  how  sweet ! 

0  banquet  of  a  foul  delight, 
Prepared  by  thee,  dark  Paraclete  ! 

Thou  art  the  whisper  in  the  gloom, 
The  hinting  tone,  the  haunting  laugh ; 

Thou  art  the  adorner  of  my  tomb, 
The  minstrel  of  mine  epitaph. 

1  fight  thee,  in  the  Holy  Name  ! 

Yet  what  thou  dost  is  what  God  saith. 
Tempter  !  should  I  escape  thy  flame, 

Thou  wilt  have  helped  my  soul  from  Death 

The  second  Death,  that  never  dies, 
That  cannot  die,  when  time  is  dead ; 

Live  Death,  wherein  the  lost  soul  cries, 
Eternally  uncomforted. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       437 

Dark  Angel,  with  thine  aching  lust ! 

Of  two  defeats,  of  two  despairs  : 
Less  dread,  a  change  to  drifting  dust, 

Than  thine  eternity  of  cares. 

Do  what  thou  wilt,  thou  shalt  not  so, 

Dark  Angel !  triumph  over  me : 
Lonely  unto  the  Lone  2  go  ; 

Divine,  to  the  Divinity. 


THE  LAST  MUSIC 

CALMLY,  breathe  calmly  all  your  music,  maids ! 
Breathe  a  calm  music  over  my  dead  queen. 
All  your  lives  long,  you  have  not  heard  nor 

seen 

Fairer  than  she,  whose  hair  in  sombre  braids 
With  beauty  overshades 
Her  brow  broad  and  serene. 

Surely  she  hath  lain  so  an  hundred  years  : 
Peace  is  upon  her,  old  as  the  world's  heart. 
Breathe  gently,  music  !     Music  done,  depart : 
And  leave  me  in  her  presence  to  my  tears, 

With  music  in  mine  ears ; 

For  sorrow  hath  its  art. 

Music,  more  music,  sad  and  slow  !     She  lies 

Dead  :  and  more  beautiful  than  early  morn. 

Discrowned  am  I,  and  of  her  looks  forlorn : 

.Alone  vain  memories  immortalize 

The  way  of  her  soft  eyes, 
Her  virginal  voice  low  borne. 


438      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURT  OF 

The  balm  of  gracious  death  now  laps  her  round 
As  once  life  gave  her  grace  beyond  her  peers. 
Strange  !  that  I  loved  this  lady  of  the  spheres, 
To  sleep  by  her  at  last  in  common  ground : 
When  kindly  death  hath  bound 
Mine  eyes,  and  sealed  mine  ears. 

Maidens  !  make  a  low  music :   merely  make 
Silence  a  melody,  no  more.     This  day, 
She  travels  down  a  pale  and  lonely  way : 
Now  for  a  gentle  comfort,  let  her  take 
Such  music  for  her  sake, 
As  mourning  love  can  play. 

Holy  my  queen  lies  in  the  arms  of  death  : 
Music  moves  over  her  still  face,  and  I 
Lean  breathing  love  over  her.     She  will  lie 
In  earth  thus  calmly,  under  the  wind's  breath  — 
The  twilight  wind  that  saith  : 
Rest  !  worthy  found  to  die. 


THE  RED  WIND 

ED  WIND  from  out  the  East : 

Red  Wind  of  blight  and  blood 
Ah,  when  wilt  thou  have  ceased 
Thy  bitter,  stormy  flood  ? 


R 


Red  Wind  from  over  sea, 
Scourging  our  holy  land  ! 

What  angel  loosened  thee 
Out  of  his  iron  hand  ? 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       439 

Red  Wind,  whose  word  of  might 
Winged  thee  with  wings  of  flame  ? 

O  fire  of  mournful  night ! 
What  is  thy  Master's  name? 

Red  Wind  !  who  bade  thee  burn, 
Branding  our  hearts  ?     Who  bade 

Thee  on  and  never  turn, 

Till  waste  our  souls  were  laid  ? 

Red  Wind  !  from  out  the  West 

Pour  Winds  of  Paradise : 
Winds  of  eternal  rest, 

That  weary  souls  entice. 

Wind  of  the  East !  Red  Wind  ! 

Thou  scorchest  the  soft  breath 
Of  Paradise  the  kind  : 

Red  Wind  of  burning  death  ! 

O  Red  Wind  !  hear  God's  voice : 

Hear  thou,  and  fall,  and  cease. 
Let  Innisfail  rejoice 

In  her  Hesperian  peace. 


A 


TO  MORFYDD 

VOICE  of  the  winds, 
A  voice  by  the  waters, 
Wanders  and  cries : 


Oh  !  what  are  the  winds  ? 
And  what  are  the  waters  ? 
Mine  are  your  eyes. 


440      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

Western  the  winds  are, 
And  western  the  waters, 
Where  the  light  lies : 

Oh  !  what  are  the  winds  ? 
And  what  are  the  waters  ? 
Mine  are  your  eyes. 

Cold,  cold  grow  the  winds, 
And  dark  grow  the  waters, 
Where  the  sun  dies  : 

Oh  !  what  are  the  winds  ? 
And  what  are  the  waters  ? 
Mine  are  your  eyes. 

And  down  the  night  winds 
And  down  the  night  waters, 
The  music  flies : 

O  !  what  are  the  winds  / 
And  what  are  the  waters  t 
Cold  be  the  winds, 
And  wild  be  the  waters, 
So  mine  be  your  eyes. 


WAYS  OF  WAR 

\     TERRIBLE  and  splendid  trust 
/~\      Heartens  the  host  of  Innisfail : 

Their  dream  is  of  the  swift  sword-thrust, 
A  lightning  glory  of  the  Gael. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       441 

Croagh  Patrick  is  the  place  of  prayers, 

And  Tara  the  assembling-place  : 
But  each  sweet  wind  of  Ireland  bears 

The  trump  of  battle  on  its  race. 

From  Dursey  Isle  to  Donegal, 

From  Howth  to  Achill,  the  glad  noise 

Rings :  and  the  heirs  of  glory  fall, 
Or  victory  crowns  their  fighting  joys. 

A  dream  !  a  dream  !  an  ancient  dream  ! 

Yet,  ere  peace  come  to  Innisfail, 
Some  weapons  on  some  field  must  gleam, 

Some  burning  glory  fire  the  Gael. 

That  field  may  lie  beneath  the  sun, 

Fair  for  the  treading  of  an  host : 
That  field  in  realms  of  thought  be  won, 

And  armed  minds  do  their  uttermost : 

Some  way  to  faithful  Innisfail 

Shall  come  the  majesty  and  awe 
Of  martial  truth,  that  must  prevail 

To  lay  on  all  the  eternal  law. 


442      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURT  OF 


ROBERT  DWYER  JOYCE 

(1830-1883) 

CROSSING  THE  BLACKWATER 

A.  D.   1603 

WE  stood  so  steady, 
All  under  fire, 
We  stood  so  steady, 
Our  long  spears  ready 

To  vent  our  ire ; 
To  dash  on  the  Saxon, 
Our  mortal  foe, 
And  lay  him  low 
In  the  bloody  mire. 

'Twas  by  Black  water, 
When  snows  were  white, 

'Twas  by  Blackwater, 

Our  foes  for  the  slaughter 
Stood  full  in  sight ; 

But  we  were  ready 

With  our  long  spears, 

And  we  had  no  fears 
But  we'd  win  the  fight. 

Their  bullets  came  whistling 

Upon  our  rank, 
Their  bullets  came  whistling, 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       443 

Their  spears  were  bristling 

On  th'  other  bank : 
Yet  we  stood  steady, 
And  each  good  blade, 
Ere  the  morn  did  fade, 

At  their  life-blood  drank. 


"  Hurrah  !  for  Freedom  !  " 

Came  from  our  van, 
"Hurrah  !  for  Freedom  ! 
Our  swords — we'll  feed  'em 

As  best  we  can  — 
With  vengeance  we'll  feed  'em  !  *: 
Then  down  we  crashed, 
Through  the  wild  ford  dashed, 

And  the  fray  began. 

Horses  to  horses 

And  man  to  man  : 
O'er  dying  horses, 
And  blood  and  corses, 

O' Sullivan, 

Our  general,  thundered, 
And  we  were  not  slack 
To  slay  at  his  back 

Till  the  fight  began. 

O  how  we  scattered 

The  foemen  then, — 
Slaughtered  and  scattered, 
And  chased  and  shattered, 

By  shore  and  glen  ! 
To  the  wall  of  Moyallo 


444      TME  GOLDEN  TREJSURr  OF 

Few  fled  that  day  : 
Will  they  bar  our  way 
When  we  come  again  ? 

Our  dead  freres  we  buried, 

They  were  but  few, 
Our  dead  freres  we  buried 
Where  the  dark  waves  hurried, 

And  flashed  and  flew  : 
O  sweet  be  their  slumber 
Who  thus  have  died 
In  the  battle's  tide, 

Innisfail,  for  you  ! 


THE  BLACKSMITH  OF  LIMERICK 

HE  grasped  his  ponderous  hammer ;  he  could  not 
stand  it  more, 
To    hear    the    bombshells   bursting   and   the 

thundering  battle's  roar. 

He  said  :   "  The  breach  they're  mounting,  the  Dutch- 
man's murdering  crew  — 

I'll  try  my  hammer  on  their  heads  and  see  what  that 
can  do  ! 

"  Now,  swarthy  Ned  and  Moran,  make  up  that  iron 

well; 
'Tis  Sarsfield's  horse  that  wants  the  shoes,  so  mind  not 

shot  or  shell." 
"Ah,  sure,"  cried  both,   "the  horse  can  wait — for 

Sarsfield's  on  the  wall, 
And  where  you  go  we'll  follow,  with  you  to  stand  or 

fall ! " 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       445 

The  blacksmith  raised  his  hammer,  and  rushed  into 

the  street, 
His  'prentice  boys  behind  him,  the  ruthless  foe  to 

meet  — ' 
High  on  the  breach  of  Limerick,  with  dauntless  hearts 

they  stood 
Where  the  bombshells  burst  and  shot  fell  thick,  and 

redly  ran  the  blood. 

"  Now  look  you,  brown-haired  Moran,  and  mark  you, 
swarthy  Ned ; 

This  day  we'll  prove  the  thickness  of  many  a  Dutch- 
man's head  ! 

Hurrah  !  upon  their  bloody  path  they're  mounting 
gallantly ; 

And  now  the  first  that  tops  the  breach,  leave  him  to 
this  and  me  !  " 

The  first  that  gained  the  rampart,  he  was  a  captain 

brave  ! 
A  captain  of  the  Grenadiers,  with  blood-stained  dirk 

and  glaive ; 

He  pointed  and  he  parried,  but  it  was  all  in  vain, 
For  fast  through  skull  and  helmet  the  hammer  found 

his  brain  ! 

The  next  that  topped  the  rampart,  he  was  a  colonel 
bold, 

Bright  through  the  murk  of  battle  his  helmet  flashed 
with  gold. 

"Gold  is  no  match  for  iron  1"  the  doughty  black- 
smith said, 

As  with  that  ponderous  hammer  he  cracked  his  foe- 
man's  head  ! 


446      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

"  Hurrah    for   gallant   Limerick  ! "   black   Ned   and 

Moran  cried, 
As  on  the  Dutchmen's  leaden  heads  their  hammers 

well  they  plied  ; 
A  bombshell  burst  between  them — one  fell  without  a 

groan, 
One  leaped  into  the  lurid  air,  and  down  the  breach 

was  thrown  ! 

"  Brave  smith  !  brave  smith  !  "  cried  Sarsfield,  "  be- 
ware the  treacherous  mine  — 

Brave  smith  !  brave  smith  !  fall  backward,  or  surely 
death  is  thine  !  " 

The  smith  sprang  up  the  rampart  and  leaped  the 
blood-stained  wall, 

As  high  into  the  shuddering  air  went  foemen,  breach 
and  all  1 

Up  like  a  red  volcano  they  thundered  wild  and  high, 
Spear,    gun,    and    shattered    standard,    and    foemen 

through  the  sky ; 
And  dark  and  bloody  was  the  shower  that  round  the 

blacksmith  fell  — 
He  thought  upon  his  'prentice  boys,  they  were  avenged 

well  ! 

On  foeman  and  defenders  a  silence  gathered  down, 
'Twas    broken    by  a    triumph-shout  that   shook   the 

ancient  town  ; 
As  out  its  heroes  sallied,  and  bravely  charged  and 

slew, 
And  taught  King  William  and  his  men  what  Irish 

hearts  can  do ! 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       447 

Down  rushed  the  swarthy  blacksmith  unto  the  river 

side, 
He  hammered  on  the  foes'  pontoon,  to  sink  it  in  the 

tide; 
The  timber  it  was  tough  and  strong,  it  took  no  crack 

or  strain  — 
"Mavrone,  'twon't  break,"  the  blacksmith    roared; 

"I'll  try  their  heads  again  !  " 


The  blacksmith  sought  his  smithy,  and  blew  his  bellows 

strong  ; 
He  shod  the  steed  of  Sarsfield,  but  o'er  it  sang  no 

song: 
"  Ochon  !  my  boys  are  dead,"  he  cried;  "  their  loss 

I'll  long  deplore, 
But  comfort's  in  my  heart — their  graves  are  red  with 

foreign  gore!  " 


THE  WIND  THAT  SHAKES  THE  BARLEY 

I  sat  within  the  valley  green, 
I  sat  me  with  my  true  love ; 
My  sad  heart  strove  the  two  between, 
The  old  love  and  the  new  love ; 
The  old  for  her,  the  new  that  made 

Me  think  on  Ireland  dearly, 
While  soft  the  wind  blew  down  the  glade, 
And  shook  the  golden  barley. 

'Twas  hard  the  woeful  words  to  frame 
To  break  the  ties  that  bound  us ; 


448      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

But  harder  still  to  bear  the  shame 
Of  foreign  chains  around  us. 

And  so  I  said,  "  The  mountain  glen 
I'll  seek  at  morning  early, 

And  join  the  brave  United  Men," 
While  soft  winds  shook  the  barley. 

While  sad  I  kissed  away  her  tears, 

My  fond  arms  around  her  flinging, 
The  foeman's  shot  burst  on  our  ears, 

From  out  the  wildwood  ringing  ; 
The  bullet  pierced  my  true  love's  side, 

In  life's  young  spring  so  early, 
And  on  my  breast  in  blood  she  died, 

When  soft  winds  shook  the  barley. 

But  blood  for  blood  without  remorse 

I've  ta'en  at  Oulart  Hollow ; 
I've  placed  my  true  love's  clay-cold  corse 

Where  I  full  soon  will  follow; 
And  round  her  grave  I  wander  drear, 

Noon,  night,  and  morning  early, 
With  breaking  heart  where'er  I  hear 

The  wind  that  shakes  the  barley  ! 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       449 


ROSE  KAVANAGH 

(1860-1891) 

LOUGH  BRAY 

A  LITTLE  lonely  moorland  lake, 
Its  waters  brown  and  cool  and  deep  - 
The  cliff,  the  hills  behind  it  make 
A  picture  for  my  heart  to  keep. 

For  rock  and  heather,  wave  and  strand, 
Wore  tints  I  never  saw  them  wear ; 

The  June  sunshine  was  o'er  the  land, 
Before,  'twas  never  half  so  fair  ! 

The  amber  ripples  sang  all  day, 

And  singing  spilled  their  crowns  of  white 
Upon  the  beach,  in  thin  pale  spray 

That  streaked  the  sober  sand  with  light. 

The  amber  ripples  sang  their  song, 
When  suddenly  from  far  o'erhead 

A  lark's  pure  voice  mixed  with  the  throng 
Of  lovely  things  about  us  spread. 

Some  flowers  were  there,  so  near  the  brink 
Their  shadows  in  the  wave  were  thrown  ; 

While  mosses,  green  and  gray  and  pink, 
Grew  thickly  round  each  smooth  dark  stone. 


450      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

And  over  all,  the  summer  sky, 
Shut  out  the  town  we  left  behind ; 

'Twas  joy  to  stand  in  silence  by, 

One  bright  chain  linking  mind  to  mind. 

Oh,  little  lonely  mountain  spot ! 

Your  place  within  my  heart  will  be 
Apart  from  all  Life's  busy  lot 

A  true,  sweet,  solemn  memory. 


I 


ST.  MICHAN'S  CHURCHYARD 

NSIDE  the  city's  throbbing  heart 
One  spot  I  know  set  well  apart 
From  life's  hard  highway,  life's  loud  mart. 


Each  Dublin  lane  and  street  and  square 

Around  might  echo ;  but  in  there 

The  sound  stole  soft  as  whispered  prayer. 

A  little,  lonely,  green  graveyard, 

The  old  churchyard  its  solemn  guard, 

The  gate  with  naught  but  sunbeams  barred ; 

While  other  sunbeams  went  and  came 
Above  the  stone  which  waits  the  name 
His  land  must  write  with  Freedom's  flame.1 

The  slender  elm  above  that  stone, 

Its  summer  wreath  of  leaves  had  thrown 

Around  the  heart  so  quiet  grown. 

1  Referring  to  the  grave  of  Robert  Emmet. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       451 

A  robin  the  bare  boughs  among, 
Let  loose  his  little  soul  in  song  — 
Quick  liquid  gushes  fresh  and  strong  ! 

And  quiet  heart,  and  bird  and  tree, 
Seemed  linked  in  some  strange  sympathy 
Too  fine  for  mortal  eye  to  see  — 

But  full  of  balm  and  soothing  sweet, 
For  those  who  sought  that  calm  retreat ; 
For  aching  breast  and  weary  feet. 

Each  crowded  street  and  thoroughfare 
Was  echoing  round  it — yet  in  there 
The  peace  of  Heaven  was  everywhere  ! 


THE  NORTHERN  BLACKWATER 

OTHE  broom  banks  of  the  river  are  fair, 
Now  the  wild  brier  is  blossoming  there  — 
Now  when  the  green  banks  so  calmly  repose, 
Lulled  by  the  river's  strange  chant  as  it  goes, 
Laughing  beneath  the  gold  eyes  of  the  broom, 
Flashing  so  free  where  the  heather's  in  bloom, 
Blushing  all  o'er  at  the  kiss  of  the  sun, 
Tranquil  again  at  the  gaze  of  a  nun. 
Is  it,  my  river,  a  sob  or  a  song 
Beats  from  that  heart  as  you  hurry  along  ? 
Once  in  the  twilight  I  thought  it  farewell, 
Just  a  good-bye  to  both  mountain  and  dell. 


452      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 

Here  the  first  daisies  break  free  from  the  sod, 
Stars  looking  up  with  their  first  glance  to  God  ! 
Here,  ere  the  first  days  of  April  are  done, 
Stand  the  swart  cherry  trees  robed  with  the  sun ; 
In  the  deep  woodland  the  windflovvers  blow  ; 
Where  young  grass  is  springing,  the  crocuses  glow, 
Down  the  green  glen  is  the  primrose's  light, 
Soft  shines  the  hawthorn's  raiment  of  white  ; 
Round  the  rough  knees  of  the  crab-tree  a  ring 
Of  daffodils  dance  for  joy  of  the  spring ; 
And  then  my  bright  river,  so  full  and  so  free, 
Sings  as  it  wanders  through  woodland  and  lea. 

Fed  with  a  thousand  invisible  rills, 
Girdled  around  with  the  awe  of  the  hills, 
High  in  the  mountains  you  spring  to  the  light, 
Pure  as  the  dawn  from  the  dark  ring  of  night. 
Well  may  the  fairies  keep  revelry  round, 
There  where  you  cleave  the  thin  air  at  a  bound, 
And  rush  on  the  crag  with  your  arms  outspread  — 
Only  a  fairy  could  step  where  you  tread 
'Mid  the  deep  echoes  you  pause  to  arouse, 
'Mid  the  grim  rocks  with  the  frown  on  their  brows, 
Type  of  young  Freedom,  bold  river,  to  me ; 
Leaping  the  crags,  sweeping  down  to  Lough  Neagh. 

Many  a  ruin,  both  abbey  and  cot, 

Sees  in  your  mirror  a  desolate  lot. 

Many  an  ear  lying  shut  far  away 

Hearkened  the  tune  that  your  dark  ripples  play 

One — I  remember  her  better  than  all  — 

She  knew  every  legend  of  cabin  and  hall ; 

Wept  when  the  Law  and  the  Famine-time  met, 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       453 

Sang  how  the  Red  Hand  was  radiantly  set 
Over  the  victors  who  fought  at  the  Ford * 
Over  the  sweep  of  O'Neill's  Spanish  sword  — 
O  our  own  river  !  where  is  she  to-night  ? 
Where  are  the  exiles  whose  homes  are  in  sight  ? 

Once  in  the  Maytime  your  carol  so  sweet 
Found  out  my  heart  in  the  midst  of  the  street. 
Ah  !  how  I  listened,  and  you  murmured  low 
Hope,  wide  as  earth  and  as  white  as  the  snow ; 
Hope  that,  alas  !  like  the  foam  on  your  breast, 
Broke  and  was  drifted  away  from  its  rest. 
Peace  did  not  pass  from  your  bonny  broom  shore, 
Lost  though  the  hope  unto  me  evermore, 
Lost,  like  your  song — for  I  think  it  a  sigh 
Stirs  that  deep  heart  when  I  listen  anigh. 
Only  at  dusk  does  it  sound  like  farewell, 
Just  a  good-bye  to  myself  and  the  dell. 

1  TheFord,  Beal-an  atha-Buidhe.     See  Dr.  Drennan's  poem 
with  this  title. 


454      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 


JOHN  KEEGAN 

(1809-1849) 

CAOCH1  THE  PIPER 

ONE  winter's  day,  long,  long  ago, 
When  I  was  a  little  fellow, 
A  piper  wandered  to  our  door, 
Gray-headed,  blind,  and  yellow  : 
And,  oh !  how  glad  was  my  young  heart, 

Though  earth  and  sky  looked  dreary, 
To  see  the  stranger  and  his  dog  — 
Poor  "  Pinch  "  and  Caoch  O'Leary. 

And  when  he  stowed  away  his  "  bag," 

Crossed-barred  with  green  and  yellow, 
I  thought  and  said,  "  In  Ireland's  ground 

There's  not  so  fine  a  fellow." 
And  Fineen  Burke,  and  Shaun  Magee, 

And  Eily,  Kate,  and  Mary, 
Rushed  in,  with  panting  haste,  to  "see" 

And  "welcome"  Caoch  O'Leary. 

Oh  !  God  be  with  those  happy  times  ! 

Oh  !  God  be  with  my  childhood  ! 
When  I,  bareheaded,  roamed  all  day — 

Bird-nesting  in  the  wildwood. 
I'll  not  forget  those  sunny  hours, 

1  Caoch,  blind. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LTR1CS       455 

However  years  may  vary  ; 

I'll  not  forget  my  early  friends, 

Nor  honest  Caoch  O'Leary. 

Poor  Caoch  and  "  Pinch  "  slept  well  that  night, 

And  in  the  morning  early 
He  called  me  up  to  hear  him  play 

"  The  wind  that  shakes  the  barley;  " 
And  then  he  stroked  my  flaxen  hair, 

And  cried,  "  God  mark  my  deary  1  " 
And  how  I  wept  when  he  said,  "  Farewell, 

And  think  of  Caoch  O'Leary  !  " 

And. seasons  came  and  went,  and  still 

Old  Caoch  was  not  forgotten, 
Although  we  thought  him  dead  and  gone, 

And  in  the  cold  grave  rotten  ; 
And  often,  when  1  walked  and  talked 

With  Eily,  Kate,  and  Mary, 
We  thought  of  childhood's  rosy  hours, 

And  prayed  for  Caoch  O'Leary. 

Well — twenty  summers  had  gone  past, 

And  June's  red  sun  was  sinking, 
When  I,  a  man,  sat  by  my  door, 

Of  twenty  sad  things  thinking. 
A  little  dog  came  up  the  way, 

His  gait  was  slow  and  weary, 
And  at  his  tail  a  lame  man  limped  — 

Twas  "  Pinch"  and  Caoch  O'Leary  ! 

Old  Caoch,  but,  oh  !  how  woebegone ! 
His  form  is  bowed  and  bending, 


456      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

His  fleshless  hands  are  stiff  and  wan, 

Ay — time  is  even  blending 
The  colors  on  his  threadbare  "  bag  " — 

And  "  Pinch  "  is  twice  as  hairy 
And  "  thin-spare"  as  when  first  I  saw 

Himself  and  Caoch  O'Leary. 

"  God's  blessing  here  !  "  the  wanderer  cried, 

"  Far,  far  be  hell's  black  viper; 
Does  anybody  hereabouts 

Remember  Caoch  the  Piper?  " 
With  swelling  heart  I  grasped  his  hand ; 

The  old  man  murmured,  "  Deary, 
Are  you  the  silky-headed  child 

That  loved  poor  Caoch  O'Leary?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  I  said — the  wanderer  wept 

As  if  his  heart  was  breaking  — 
"And  where,  a  vie  machree,"  he  sobbed, 

"  Is  all  the  merry-making 
1  found  here  twenty  years  ago  ?  " 

"  My  tale,"  I  sighed,  "  might  weary; 
Enough  to  say — there's  none  but  me 

To  welcome  Caoch  O'Leary." 

"  Vo,  vo,  vo  !  "  the  old  man  cried, 

And  wrung  his  hands  in  sorrow, 
"  Pray  let  me  in,  astore  machree, 

And  I'll  go  home  to-morrow. 
My  '  peace  is  made '  ;  I'll  calmly  leave 

This  world  so  cold  and  dreary ; 
And  you  shall  keep  my  pipes  and  dog, 

And  pray  for  Caoch  O'Leary." 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       457 

With  "  Pinch  "  I  watched  his  bed  that  night; 

Next  day  his  wish  was  granted : 
He  died ;   and  Father  James  was  brought, 

And  the  Requiem  Mass  was  chanted. 
The  neighbors  came ;  we  dug  his  grave 

Near  Eily,  Kate,  and  Mary, 
And  there  he  sleeps  his  last  sweet  sleep. 

God  rest  you  !  Caoch  O'Leary. 


458      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 


ELSA  D'ESTERRE-KEELING 
AN  IRISH  THING  IN  RHYME 

LOVE   MAKING    IN    PADDY    LAND 
From  "  In  Thoughtland  and  Dreamland" 
I.      Under  Kitty's  Window. 

"    \    H,  then  ;  who  is  that  there  talkin'  ?  " 
/-\         "  Sure  it's  only  me,  ye  know. 

I  was  thinkin'  we'd  go  walkin' — " 
"  Wor  ye  raly  thinkin'  so  ?  " 

"  Och,  ye  needn'  be  so  cruel 

An'  me  thrudged  this  siven  mile — >; 

"  Is  it  cruel,  Michael,  jewel  ? 
Sure  I'm  dressin'  all  the  while  !  " 

II.     Before  Michael's  Cottage. 

"There,  now,  that's  me  cottage,  Kitty." 

"Is  it,  Mike?" 
"  Yis ;  an'  isn't  it  pretty  ?  " 

"  Hm  1 — lonesome  like." 

"  Lonesome  1  "  (Now's  y'r  minute  ! 

Michael,  strike  !) 
"  Sure,  \{  you  wor  in  it — " 

"Arrah,  Mike!" 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       459 


EDWARD  KENEALY 

LOVE'S  WARNING 

A  FAIR  lady  once,  with  her  young  lover  walked, 
Gillyflower,  gentle  rosemary ; 
Through  a  garden,  and  sweetly  they  laughed 

and  talked, 
While  the  dews  fell  over  the  mulberry-tree. 

She  gave  him  a  rose — while  he  sighed  for  a  kiss, 

Gillyflower,  gentle  rosemary ; 
Quoth  he,  as  he  took  it,  "I  kiss  thee  in  this," 

While  the  dews  fall  over  the  mulberry-tree. 

She  gave  him  a  lily  less  white  than  her  breast, 

Gillyflower,  gentle  rosemary ; 
Quoth  he,  "  'twill  remind  me  of  one  I  love  best ;  " 

While  the  dews  fall  over  the  mulberry-tree. 

She  gave  him  a  two  faces  under  a  hood, 

Gillyflower,  gentle  rosemary ; 

"  How  blest  you  could  make  me,"  quoth  he,  "if  you 
would," 

While  the  dews  fall  over  the  mulberry-tree. 

She  saw  a  forget-me-not  flower  in  the  grass, 

Gillyflower,  gentle  rosemary ; 
Ah  !  why  did  the  lady  that  little  flower  pass  ? 

While  the  dews  fell  over  the  mulberry-tree. 


460      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURT  OF 

The  young  lover  saw  that  she  passed  it,  and  sigh'd, 

Gillyflower,  gentle  rosemary; 
They  say  his  heart  broke,  and  he  certainly  died, 

While  the  dews  fell  over  the  mulberry-tree. 

Now  all  you  fair  ladies,  take  warning  by  this, 

Gillyflower,'  gentle  rosemary ; 
And  never  refuse  your  young  lovers  a  kiss, 

While  the  dews  fall  over  the  mulberry-tree. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       461 


WILLIAM  KENEALY 

(1828-1876) 

THE  LAST  REQUEST 

YOU'RE  going  away,  Alanna,  over  the  stormy 
sea, 
And  never  more  I'll  see  you — oh  !  never,  As  thore 

machree  / 
Mavrone  !     I'm  sick  with  sorrow — sorrow  as  black  as 

night : 

Mabouchal  goes  to-morrow,  by  the  blessed  morning's 
light. 

Oh  !  once  I  thought,  Alanna,  you'd  bear  me  to  the 

grave, 
By  the  side  of  your  angel  sisters,  before  you'd  cross  the 

wave : 
Down  to  the  green  old  churchyard,  where  the  tree's 

dark  shadows  fall  — 
But  now,  Achorra,  you're  going,  you'll  not  be  there 

at  all. 

The  strangers'  hands  must  lay  me  down  to  my  silent 

sleep, 
And  Shemus,  you'll  not  know  it  beyond  the  rolling 

deep. 
Oh  !  Dheeling !  dheeling !  Avourneen,  why  do  you 

go  away, 
Till  you'll  see  the  poor  old  mother  stretch'd  in  the 

churchyard  clay? 


462      THE  GOLDEN  TREdSURT  OF 

My   heart  is   breaking,   Alanna,   but  I  mustn't  tell 

you  so 
For  I  see  by  your  dark,  dark  sorrow,  that  your  own 

poor  heart  is  low. 

I  thought  I'd  bear  it  better,  to  cheer  you  on  your  way ; 
But,  Achorra  /  achorra  !  you're  going,  and  I'll  soon 

be  in  the  clay  ! 

God's  blessing  be  with  you,  Shemus — sure,  you'll  come 

back  again, 
When  your  curls  of  brown  are  snowy,  to  rest  with  your 

mother  then ; 
Down  in  the  green  old  churchyard,  where  the  tree's 

dark  shadows  fall  — 
Asthorach  /  in  the  strangers'  land  you  couldn't  sleep 

at  all  1 


THE  MOON  BEHIND  THE  HILL 

THE  KILKENNY  EXILE'S  CHRISTMAS  SONG 

I  WATCHED  last  night  the  rising  moon 
Upon  a  foreign  strand, 
Till  memories  came,  like  flowers  of  June, 
Of  home  and  fatherland ; 
I  dreamt  I  was  a  child  once  more 

Beside  the  rippling  rill, 
Where  first  I  saw  in  days  of  yore 
The  moon  behind  the  hill. 

It  brought  me  back  the  visions  grand 
That  purpled  boyhood's  dreams  ; 

Its  youthful  loves,  its  happy  land, 
As  bright  as  morning's  beams. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       463 

It  brought  me  back  my  own  sweet  Nore, 

The  castle  and  the  mill, 
Until  my  eyes  could  see  no  more 

The  moon  behind  the  hill. 

It  brought  me  back  a  mother's  love, 

Until,  in  accents  wild, 
I  prayed  her  from  her  home  above 

To  guard  her  lonely  child  ; 
It  brought  me  one  across  the  wave, 

To  live  in  memory  still  — 
It  brought  me  back  my  Kathleen's  grave, 

The  moon  behind  the  hill. 


464     THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 


WILLIAM  KENNEDY 

(Living) 

THE  POET'S  HEART 

THOU  know'st  it  not,  love,  when  light  looks  are 
around  thee, 

When  music  awakens  its  liveliest  tone, 
When  pleasure  in  chains  of  enchantment  hath  bound 

thee, 

Thou  know'st  not  how  truly  this  heart  is  thine  own. 
It  is  not  while  all  are  about  thee  in  gladness, 

While    shining   in    light   from   thy   young   spirit's 

shrine, 

But  in  moments  devoted  to  silence  and  sadness, 
That  thou'lt   e'er  know  the  value  of  feelings  like 
mine. 

Should  grief  touch  thy  cheek,  or  misfortune  o'er  take 

thee, 

How  soon  would  thy  mates  of  the  summer  decay  ! 
They  first  of  the  whole  fickle  flock  to  forsake  thee, 

Who  flattered  thee  most  when  thy  bosom  was  gay. 
What    though   I   seem   cold   while   their   incense   is 

burning, 

In  the  depths  of  my  soul  I  have  cherished  a  flame 
To  cheer  the  loved  one  should   the  night  time  of 

mourning 
E'er  send  its  far  shadows  to  darken  her  name. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       465 

Then  leave  the  gay  crowd — though   my   cottage  is 
lonely, 

Gay  halls  without  hearts  are  far  lonelier  still ; 
Then  say  thou'lt  be  mine,  Mary,  always  and  only, 

And  I'll  be  thy  shelter  whate'er  be  thine  ill. 
As  the  fond  mother  clings  to  her  fair  little  blossom 

The  closer  when  blight  hath  appeared  on  its  bloom, 
So  thou  Love  the  dearer  shall  be  to  this  bosom ; 

The  deeper  thy  sorrow,  the  darker  thy  doom. 


466      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 


JAMES  KENNEY 
(1780-1849) 


WHY  are  you  wandering  here,  I  pray  ? 
An  old  man  asked  a  maid  one  day. 
Looking  for  poppies,  so  bright  and  red, 
Father,  said  she,  I'm  hither  led. 
Fie  !  fie  !  she  heard  him  cry, 
Poppies,  'tis  known  to  all  who  rove, 
Grow  in  the  field,  and  not  in  the  grove  — 
Grow  in  the  field  and  not  in  the  grove. 

Tell  me  again,  the  old  man  said, 
Why  are  you  loitering  here,  fair  maid  ? 
The  nightingale's  song,  so  sweet  and  clear, 
Father,  said  she,  I  come  to  hear. 
Fie  !  fie  !  she  heard  him  cry, 
Nightingales  all,  so  people  say, 
Warble  by  night,  and  not  by  day  — 
Warble  by  night  and  not  by  day. 

The  sage  looked  grave,  the  maiden  shy, 
When  Lubin  jumped  o'er  the  stile  hard  by; 
The  sage  looked  graver,  the  maid  more  glum, 
Lubin  he  twiddled  his  finger  and  thumb. 
Fie  !  fie  !  the  old  man's  cry ; 
Poppies  like  these,  I  own,  are  rare, 
And  of  such  nightingales'  songs  beware  — 
And  of  such  nightingales'  songs  beware. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       467 


THOMAS  KEOHLER 

(Living) 

APOLOGY 

IN  the  garden  of  my  youth 
Where  the  flowers'  pale  perfumes  swayed, 
Passion  called  me  and  I  went 
Fearfully  yet  undismayed. 

In  the  garden  left  my  dreams 

Of  a  life  that  might  have  grown 
Silently  to  interweave 

With  the  spirit  world  alone. 

Why  should  I  thus  meekly  yield 

At  the  first  sound  of  a  voice ; 
At  the  beckoning  of  a  finger 

Rush  like  one  without  a  choice? 

Could  the  heart  that  nursed  reared 
All  my  youth's  pale  bloom  of  dreams, 

Also  bear  this  flaring  foliage 
With  its  blossoms'  fiery  gleams  ? 

Surely  not  a  chance  desire 

Lent  my  feet  the  will  to  go  ; 
But  a  deeper  thinking,  sinking 

To  the  soul  of  things  below : 


468      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

But  a  deeper  blending,  twining, 
With  the  bright  ones  on  their  way 

And  a  fiercer  fire  divining 
In  the  buried  heart  of  clay. 

And  as  peace  can  ne'er  be  mine 

Until  every  way  is  trod, 
With  a  heart  sincere  I  go 

Passion's  cloud-strewn  path  to  God. 


AUTUMN 

O  SEASON  of  the  withering  of  the  leaves, 
That  seek  their  last  repose  on   earth's  cold 
breast, 

O  let  me  hear  the  sorrows  of  thy  voice 
Calling  all  things  to  loveliness  and  rest. 

In  thy  soft  clouds  grown  gray  with  misery, 

Thy  desolate  branches  flaunting  the  gaunt  skies, 

Surely  there  dwells  a  sweetness  of  despair 
For  lonely  hearts  and  weary  tear-stained  eyes. 

For  dumbly  dressed,  in  sober  light  arrayed, 

Breathing  a  hidden  mystery  and  fear, 
The  pomp  and  pageants  of  eternity 

Loom  through  the  withering  ritual  of  the  year. 

THE  DEVOTEE 

THE  autumn  wind  sighs  through  the  trees, 
Disturbing  all  my  garnered  ease, 
The  brown  leaves  stir  a  fluttering  thought 
With  half-repented  memories  fraught. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       469 

Dear  God,  how  sweet  the  pain  of  sin 
That  opens  doors  to  let  Thee  in. 

How  strange  that  Nature  too  should  know 
The  ecstasy  of  sin's  wild  glow ; 
How  strange  that  in  this  way  my  soul 
Should  feel  its  union  with  the  whole. 
And  yet  may  God  not  thus  impart 
Himself  unto  the  seeking  heart  ? 


470      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 


CHARLES  J.  KICKHAM 
(1830-1882) 

MY  ULICK 

MY  Ulick  is  sturdy  and  strong, 
And  light  is  his  foot  on  the  heather, 
And  truth  has  been  wed  to  his  tongue 
Since  first  we  were  talking  together. 
And  though  he  is  lord  of  no  lands, 
Nor  castle,  nor  cattle,  nor  dairy, 
My  Ulick  has  health  and  his  hands, 

And  a  heart-load  of  love  for  his  Mary, — 
And  what  could  a  maiden  wish  more? 

One  night  at  the  heel  of  the  eve, — 

I  mind  it  was  snowing  and  blowing, — 
My  mother  was  knitting,  I  b'lieve, 

For  me  I  was  sitting  and  sewing; 
My  father  had  read  o'er  the  news, 

And  sat  there  a  humming,  "  W.e'll  wake  him," 
When  Ulick  stepped  in  at  the  door, 

As  white  as  the  weather  could  make  him : — 
True  love  never  cooled  with  the  frost. 

He  shook  the  snow  out  from  his  frieze, 
And  drew  a  chair  up  to  my  father, 

My  heart  lifted  up  to  my  eyes 
To  see  the  two  sitting  together ; 

They  talked  of  our  isle  and  her  wrongs 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       471 

Till  both  were  as  mad  as  starvation  : 
Then  Ulick  sang  three  or  four  songs, 

And  closed  with  "  Hurra  for  the  Nation  !  " — 
O  Ulick,  an  Irishman  still ! 

My  father  took  him  by  the  hand, 

Their  hearts  melted  into  each  other ; 
While  tears  that  she  could  not  command 

Broke  loose  from  the  eyes  of  my  mother. 
"Ah,  Freedom  !  "  she  cried,  "wirra  sthrue, 

A  woman  can  say  little  in  it ; 
But  were  it  to  come  by  you  two, 

I've  a  guess  at  the  way  you  would  win  it, — 
It  would  not  be  by  weeping,  I  swear." 


472      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 


PATRICK  SHEEHAN 

MY  name  is  Patrick  Sheehan, 
My  years  are  thirty-four ; 
Tipperary  is  ray  native  place, 
Not  far  from  Galtymore : 
I  came  of  honest  parents, 

But  now  they're  lying  low ; 
And  many  a  pleasant  day  I  spent 
In  the  Glen  of  Aherlow. 


My  father  died ;  I  closed  his  eyes 

Outside  our  cabin  door ; 
The  landlord  and  the  sheriff  too 

Were  there  the  day  before  ! 
And  then  my  loving  mother, 

And  sisters  three  also, 
Were  forced  to  go  with  broken  hearts 

From  the  Glen  of  Aherlow. 

For  three  long  months,  in  search  of  work, 

I  wandered  far  and  near ; 
I  went  then  to  the  poor-house, 

For  to  see  my  mother  dear ; 
The  news  I  heard  nigh  broke  my  heart ; 

But  still,  in  all  my  woe, 
I  bless  the  friends  who  made  their  graves 

In  the  Glen  of  Aherlow. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       473 

Bereft  of  home  and  kith  and  kin, 

With  plenty  all  around, 
I  starved  within  my  cabin, 

And  slept  upon  the  ground ; 
But  cruel  as  my  lot  was, 

I  ne'er  did  hardship  know 
'Till  I  joined  the  English  army, 

Far  away  from  Aherlow. 

"Rouse  up  there,"  says  the  corporal, 

"  You  lazy  Hirish  hound  ; 
Why  don't  you  hear,  you  sleepy  dog, 

The  call  <  to  arms  '  sound  ?  " 
Alas,  I  had  been  dreaming 

Of  days  long,  long  ago ; 
I  woke  before  Sebastopol, 

And  not  in  Aherlow. 

I  groped  to  find  my  musket  — 
How  dark  I  thought  the  night ! 

0  blessed  God,  it  was  not  dark, 
It  was  broad  daylight ! 

And  when  I  found  that  I  was  blind, 
My  tears  began  to  flow ; 

1  longed  for  even  a  pauper's  grave 

In  the  Glen  of  Aherlow. 

O  blessed  Virgin  Mary, 

Mine  is  a  mournful  tale ; 
A  poor  blind  prisoner  here  I  am, 

In  Dublin's  dreary  jail ; 
Struck  blind  within  the  trenches, 

Where  I  never  feared  the  foe ; 
And  now  I'll  never  see  again 

My  own  sweet  Aherlow  ! 


474      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURr  OF 
RORY  OF  THE  HILL 


«  '"T^HAT  rake  up  near  the  rafters, 

Why  leave  it  there  so  long  ? 
The  handle,  of  the  best  ash, 

Is  smooth  and  straight  and  strong  ; 
And,  mother,  will  you  tell  me, 

Why  did  my  father  frown 
When  to  make  the  hay,  in  summer-time 

I  climbed  to  take  it  down  ?  " 
She  looked  into  her  husband's  eyes, 

While  her  own  with  light  did  fill, 
"  You'll  shortly  know  the  reason,  boy!  " 

Said  Rory  of  the  Hill. 

The  midnight  moon  is  lightning  up 

The  slopes  of  Sliav-na-man,  — 
Whose  foot  affrights  the  startled  hares 

So  long  before  the  dawn  ?    ' 
He  stopped  just  where  the  Anner's  stream 

Winds  up  the  woods  anear, 
Then  whistled  low  and  looked  around 

To  see  the  coast  was  clear. 
The  sheeling  door  flew  open  — 

In  he  stepped  with  right  good-will  — 
"  God  save  all  here  and  bless  your  WORK, 

Said  Rory  of  the  Hill. 

Right  hearty  was  the  welcome 

That  greeted  him,  I  ween, 
For  years  gone  by  he  fully  proved 

How  well  he  loved  the  Green  ; 
And  there  was  one  amongst  them 

Who  grasped  him  by  the  hand  — 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       475 

One  who  through  all  that  weary  time 

Roamed  on  a  foreign  strand ; 
He  brought  them  news  from  gallant  friends 

That  made  their  heart-strings  thrill  — 
"  My  sow  I /     I  never  doubted  them  !  " 

Said  Rory  of  the  Hill. 

They  sat  around  the  humble  board 

Till  dawning  of  the  day, 
And  yet  not  song  nor  shout  I  heard  — 

No  revelers  were  they : 
Some  brows  flushed  red  with  gladness, 

While  some  were  grimly  pale; 
But  pale  or  red,  from  out  those  eyes 

Flashed  souls  that  never  quail ! 
"  And  sing  us  now  about  the  vow, 

They  swore  for  to  fulfil — " 
"  You'll  read  it  yet  in  history," 

Said  Rory  of  the  Hill. 

Next  day  the  ashen  handle 

He  took  down  from  where  it  hung, 
The  toothed  rake,  full  scornfully, 

Into  the  fire  he  flung ; 
And  in  its  stead  a  shining  blade 

Is  gleaming  once  again  — 
(Oh  !  for  a  hundred  thousand  of 

Such  weapons  and  such  men  !) 
Right  soldierly  he  wielded  it, 

And — going  through  his  drill — 
"  Attention  " — "  charge  " — "  front,  point  "— 
"advance" 

Cried  Rory  of  the  Hill. 


476      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

She  looked  at  him  with  woman's  pride, 

With  pride  and  woman's  fears; 
She  flew  to  him,  she  clung  to  him, 

And  dried  away  her  tears  ; 
He  feels  her  pulse  beat  truly, 

While  her  arms  around  him  twine — 
' '  Now  God  be  praised  for  your  stout  heart, 

Brave  little  wife  of  mine." 
He  swung  his  first-born  in  the  air, 

While  joy  his  heart  did  fill  — 
"  You'll  be  a  FREEMAN  yet,  my  boy," 

Said  Rory  of  the  Hill. 

Oh  !  knowledge  is  a  wondrous  power, 

And  stronger  than  the  wind ; 
And  thrones  shall  fall,  and  despots  bow, 

Before  the  might  of  mind ; 
The  poet  and  the  orator 

The  heart  of  man  can  sway, 
And  would  to  the  kind  heavens 

That  Wolfe  Tone  were  here  to-day  ! 
Yet  trust  me,  friends,  dear  Ireland's  strength- 

Her  truest  strength — is  still 
The  rough-and-ready  roving  boys, 

Like  Rory  of  the  Hill. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       477 


DENNY  LANE 

(1818-1896) 

KATE  OF  ARRAGLEN 

WHEN  first  I  saw  thee,  Kate, 
That  summer  ev'ning  late, 
Down  at  the  orchard  gate 

Of  Arraglen, 
I  felt  I'd  ne'er  before 
Seen  one  so  fair,  asthore, 
I  feared  I'd  never  more 

See  thee  again  — 
I  stopped  and  gazed  at  thee, 
My  footfall  luckily 
Reached  not  thy  ear,  though  we 

Stood  there  so  near ; 
While  from  thy  lips  a  strain, 
Soft  as  the  summer  rain, 
Sad  as  a  lover's  pain 

Fell  on  my  ear. 

I've  heard  the  lark  in  June, 
The  harp's  wild  plaintive  tune, 
The  thrush,  that  aye  too  soon 

Gives  o'er  his  strain  — 
I've  heard  in  hushed  delight, 
The  mellow  horn  at  night, 
Waking  the  echoes  light 

Of  old  Loch  Lene; 


478      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

But  neither  echoing  horn, 
Nor  thrush  upon  the  thorn, 
Nor  lark  at  early  morn, 

Hymning  in  air, 
Nor  harper's  lay  divine, 
E'er  witched  this  heart  of  mine, 
Like  that  sweet  voice  of  thine, 

That  ev'ning  there. 

And  when  some  rustling,  dear, 

Fell  on  thy  listening  ear, 

You  thought  your  brother  near, 

And  named  his  name, 
I  could  not  answer,  though, 
As  luck  would  have  it  so, 
His  name  and  mine,  you  know, 

Were  both  the  same 
Hearing  no  answering  sound, 
You  glanced  in  doubt  around, 
With  timid  look,  and  found 

It  was  not  he ; 
Turning  away  your  head, 
And  blushing  rosy  red, 
Like  a  wild  fawn  you  fled 

Far,  far  from  me. 

The  swan  upon  the  lake, 
The  wild  rose  in  the  brake, 
The  golden  clouds  that  make 

The  west  their  throne, 
The  wilcl  ash  by  the  stream, 
The  full  moon's  silver  beam, 
The  ev'ning  star's  soft  gleam, 

Shining  alone ; 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       479 

The  lily  robed  in  white, 
All,  all  are  fair  and  bright ; 
But  ne'er  on  earth  was  sight 

So  bright,  so  fair, 
As  that  one  glimpse  of  thee, 
That  I  caught  then,  machree, 
It  stole  my  heart  from  me 

That  ev'ning  there. 

And  now  you're  mine  alone, 
That  heart  is  all  my  own  — 
That  heart  that  ne'er  hath  known 

A  flame  before. 
That  form  of  mold  divine, 
That  snowy  hand  of  thine  — 
Those  locks  of  gold  are  mine 

Forevermore. 
Was  lover  ever  seen 
As  blest  as  thine,  Kathleen  ? 
Hath  lover  ever  been 

More  fond,  more  true  ? 
Thine  is  my  ev'ry  vow  ! 
Forever  dear  as  now  ! 
Queen  of  my  heart  be  thou  ! 

Mo  cailin  ruadh  ! ' 

1  Mo    .    .    .    rttadh,  my  golden-haired  girt 


480      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 


WILLIAM  LARMINIE 

(1850-1900) 

CONSOLATION 

YES,  let  us  speak,  with  lips  confirming 
The  inner  pledge  that  eyes  reveal  — 
Bright  eyes  that  death  shall  dim  forever, 
And  lips  that  silence  soon  shall  seal. 

Yes,  let  us  make  our  claim  recorded 
Against  the  powers  of  earth  and  sky, 

And  that  cold  boon  their  laws  award  us  — 
Just  once  to  live  and  once  to  die. 

Thou  sayest  that  fate  is  frosty  nothing, 
But  love  the  flame  of  souls  that  are  : 

"  Two  spirits  approach,  and  at  their  touching, 
Behold  !  an  everlasting  star. ' ' 

High  thoughts,  O  love  :  well,  let  us  speak  them  > 

Yet  bravely  face  at  least  this  fate  : 
To  know  the  dreams  of  us  that  dream  them 

On  blind,  unknowing  things  await. 

If  years  from  winter's  chill  recover, 

If  fields  are  green  and  rivers  run, 
If  thou  and  I  behold  each  other, 

Hangs  it  not  all  on  yonder  sun  ? 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       481 

So  while  that  mighty  lord  is  gracious 
With  prodigal  beams  to  flood  the  skies, 

Let  us  be  glad  that  he  can  spare  us 
The  light  to  kindle  lover's  eyes. 

And  die  assured,  should  life's  new  wonder 

In  any  world  our  slumbers  break, 
These  the  first  words  that  each  will  utter : 

"  Beloved,  art  thou  too  awake?  " 


482      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURT  OF 


EMILY  LAWLESS 

(Living) 

A  RETORT 
From  With  the  Wild  Geese. 


N 


OT  hers  your  vast  imperial  mart, 
Where  myriad  hopes  on  fears  are  hurled, 
Where  furious  rivals  meet  and  part 
To  woo  a  world. 


Not  hers  your  vast  imperial  town, 
Your  mighty  mammoth  piles  of  gain, 
Your  loaded  vessels  sweeping  down 
To  glut  the  main. 

Unused,  unseen,  her  rivers  flow, 
From  mountain  tarn  to  ocean  tide  ; 
Wide  vacant  leagues  the  sunbeams  show, 
The  rain-clouds  hide. 

You  swept  them  vacant !     Your  decree 
Bid  all  her  budding  commerce  cease ; 
You  drove  her  from  your  subject  sea, 
To  starve  in  peace  ! 

Well,  be  it  peace  !     Resigned  they  flow, 
No  laden  fleet  ad  own  them  glides, 
But  wheeling  salmon  sometimes  show 
Their  silvered  sides. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       483 

And  sometimes  through  the  long  still  day 
The  breeding  herons  slowly  rise, 
Lifting  gray  tranquil  wings  away, 
To  tranquil  skies, 

Stud  all  your  shores  with  prosperous  towns  ! 
Blacken  your  hillsides,  mile  on  mile  ! 
Redden  with  bricks  your  patient  downs  ! 
And  proudly  smile  ! 

A  day  will  come  before  you  guess, 
A  day  when  men,  with  clearer  light, 
Will  rue  that  deed  beyond  redress, 
Will  loathe  that  sight. 

And,  loathing,  fly  the  hateful  place, 
And,  shuddering,  quit  the  hideous  thing, 
For  where  unblackened  rivers  race, 
And  skylarks  sing. 

For  where,  remote  from  smoke  and  noise, 
Old  Leisure  sits  knee-deep  in  grass ; 
Where  simple  days  bring  simple  joys, 
And  lovers  pass. 

I  see  her  in  those  coming  days, 
Still  young,  still  gay ;  her  unbound  hair 
Crowned  with  a  crown  of  starlike  rays, 
Serenely  fair. 

I  see  an  envied  haunt  of  peace, 
Calm  and  untouched ;  remote  from  roar, 
Where  wearied  men  may  from  their  burdens  cease 
On  a  still  shore. 


484      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 


EDMUND  LEAMY 

(1848-        ) 

A  ROYAL  LOVE 


I  LOVED  a  love — a  royal  love  — 
In  the  golden  long  ago ; 
And  she  was  fair  as  fair  could  be, 
The  foam  upon  the  broken  sea, 
The  sheen  of  sun,  or  moon,  or  star, 
The  sparkle  from  the  diamond  spar, 
Not  half  so  rare  and  radiant  are 

As  my  own  love — my  royal  love  — 
In  the  golden  long  ago. 


And  she  had  stately  palace  halls  — 

In  the  golden  long  ago ; 
And  warriors,  men  of  stainless  swords, 
Were  seated  at  her  festive  boards, 
Fierce  champions  of  her  lightest  words, 
While  hymned  the  bard  the  chieftains'  praise, 
And  sang  their  deeds  of  battle  days, 

To  cheer  my  love — my  royal  love  — 
In  the  golden  long  ago. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       485 


in 


She  wore  a  stately  diadem  — 

In  the  golden  long  ago, 
Wrought  by  a  cunning  craftsman's  hand 
And  fashioned  from  a  battle  brand  ; 
As  fit  for  the  queen  of  a  soldier  land, 
Her  sceptre  was  a  sabre  keen, 
Her  robe  a  robe  of  radiant  green, 

My  queenly  love — my  royal  love  — 
In  the  golden  long  ago. 

IV 

Alas  for  my  love — my  royal  love  — 

Of  the  golden  long  ago  1 
For  gone  are  all  her  warrior  bauds, 
And  rusted  are  her  battle  brands, 
And  broken  her  sabre  bright  and  keen, 
And  torn  her  robe  of  radiant  green, 
A  slave  where  she  was  stainless  queen  — 
My  loyal  love — my  royal  love  — 
Of  the  golden  long  ago. 


But  there  is  hope  for  my  royal  love 

Of  the  golden  long  ago ; 
Beyond  the  broad  and  shining  sea 
Gathers  a  stubborn  chivalry 
That  yet  will  come  to  make  her  free, 
And  hedge  her  round  with  gleaming  spears, 
And  crown  her  queen  for  all  the  years, 
My  only  love — my  royal  love  — 
Of  the  golden  long  ago. 


486      THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 


JOSEPH  SHERIDAN  LE  FANU 
(1814-1872) 

ABHRAIN  AN  BHUIDEIL 

Address  of  a  Drunkard  to  a  Bottle  of  Whiskey 

FROM  what   dripping   cell,   through  what   fairy 
glen, 
Where  'mid  old  rocks  and  ruins  the  fox  makes 

his  den, 

Over  what  lonesome  mountain, 
Acuishle  mo  chroidhe  ! 
Where  gauger  never  has  trod, 
Sweet  as  the  flowery  sod, 
Wild  as  the  breath 
Of  the  breeze  on  the  heath, 

And  sparkling  all  o'er  like  the  moon-lighted  fountain, 
Are  you  come  to  me — - 
Sorrowful  me? 

Dancing — inspiring  — 
My  wild  blood  firin' ; 
Oh  !  terrible  glory  — 

Oh  !  beautiful  siren  — 
Come,  tell  the  old  story  — 

Come,  light  up  my  fancy,  and  open  my  heart. 
Oh,  beautiful  ruin  — 
My  life — my  undoin' — 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       487 

Soft  and  fierce  as  a  pantheress, 

Dream  of  my  longing,  and  wreck  of  soul, 
I  never  knew  love  till  I  loved  you,  enchantress ! 


At  first,  when  I  knew  you,  'twas  only  flirtation, 

The  touch  of  a  lip  and  the  flash  of  an  eye ; 
But  'tis  different  now — 'tis  desperation  ! 
I  worship  before  you 
I  curse  and  adore  you, 
And  without  you  I'd  die. 

Wirrasthrue  ! 
I  wish  'twas  again 
The  happy  time  when 
I  cared  little  about  you, 
Could  do  well  without  you, 
But  would  just  laugh  and  view  you ; 
'Tis  little  I  knew  you  ! 


Oh  !  terrible  darling, 
How  have  you  sought  me, 
Enchanted,  and  caught  me  ? 
See,  now,  where  you've  brought  me  — 
To  sleep  by  the  roadside,  and  dress  out  in  rags. 
Think  how  you  found  me ; 
Dreams  come  around  me  — 
The  dew  of  my  childhood  and  life's  morning  beam; 
Now  I  sleep  by  the  roadside,  a  wretch  all  in  rags. 
My  heart  that  sang  merrily  when  I  was  young 

Swells  up  like  a  billow  and  bursts  in  despair ; 
And  the  wreck  of  my  hopes  on  sweet  memory  flung, 
And  cries  on  the  air, 

Are  all  that  is  left  of  the  dream. 


488      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

Wirrasthrue  ! 

My  father  and  mother, 

The  priest,  and  my  brother  — 

Not  a  one  has  a  good  word  for  you. 
But  I  can't  part  you,  darling ;  their  preaching's  all 

vain; 

You'll  burn  in  my  heart  till  these  thin  pulses  stop ; 
And  the  wild  cup  of  life  in  your  fragrance  I'll  drain  — 

To  the  last  brilliant  drop. 

Then  oblivion  will  cover 

The  shame  that  is  over, 
The  brain  that  was  mad,  and  the  heart  that  was  sore ; 

Then,  beautiful  witch, 

I'll  be  found — in  a  ditch, 
With  your  kiss  on  my  cold  lips,  and  never  rise  more. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       489 


SHAMUS  O'BRIEN1 
A  Tale  of  Ninety-eight,  as  related  by  an  Irish  Peasant 

JUST  after  the  war,  in  the  year  Ninety-Eight, 
As  soon  as  the  boys  were  all  scattered  and  bate, 
'Twas  the  custom,  whenever  a  peasant  was  caught, 
To  hang  him  by  trial — barring  such  as  was  shot. 
There  was  trial  by  jury  goin'  on  by  daylight, 
And  the  martial  law  hangin*  the  lavings  by  night : 
It's  them  was  hard  times  for  an  honest  gossoon  : 
If  he  missed  in  the  judges,  he'd  meet  a  Dragoon  ; 
And  whether  the  judge  or  the  soldiers  gave  sentence, 
The  divil  a  much  time  they  allowed  for  repentance. 
An'  the  many's  the  fine  Boy  was  then  on  his  keeping, 
With  small  share  of  restin',  or  atin',  or  sleepin', 
An'  because  they  loved  Erin,  and  scorned  to  sell  it, 
A  prey  for  the  bloodhound,  a  mark  for  the  bullet, 
Unsheltered  by  night,  and  unrested  by  day, 
With  the  heath  for  their  barrack,  revenge  for  their  pay. 
An'  the  bravest  and  hardiest  Boy  of  them  all 

1 W.  R.  Le  Fanu  in  his  Seventy  Years  of  Irish  Life^  1903, 
says:  "  (It)  was  written  in  a  very  few  days  in  the  year  1840, 
and  sent  me  day  by  day  by  my  brother  as  he  wrote  it.  I 
quickly  learned  it  by  heart,  and  now  and  then  recited  it.  The 
scraps  of  paper  on  which  it  was  written  were  lost,  and  years 
after,  when  my  brother  wished  for  a  copy,  I  had  to  write  it  out 
from  memory  for  him.  One  other  copy  1  gave  to  Samuel 
Lover,  who  recited  it  in  America,  and  notwithstanding  his  dis- 
claimer of  the  authorship  it  was  more  than  once  attributed  to 
him." 


490      THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY  OF 

Was  Shamus  O'Brien,  from  the  town  of  Glengall. 
His  limbs  were  well  set,  and  his  body  was  light, 
An'  the  keen  fanged  hound  hadn't  teeth  half  so  white. 
But  his  face  was  as  pale  as  the  face  of  the  dead, 
And  his  cheek  never  warmed  with  the  blush  of  the 

red ; 

And,  for  all  that,  he  wasn't  an  ugly  young  Boy, 
For  the  devil  himself  couldn't  blaze  with  his  eye, 
So  funny  and  so  wicked,  so  dark  and  so  bright, 
Like  a  fire-flash  that  crosses  the  depth  of  the  night. 
And  he  was  the  best  mower  that  ever  has  been, 
And  the  illigantest  hurler  that  ever  was  seen ; 
In  fincin'  he  gave  Patrick  Mooney  a  cut, 
And  in  jumpin'  he  bate  Tom  Malony  a  foot. 
For  lightness  of  foot  there  wasn't  his  peer, 
For,  begorra,  you'd  think  he'd  outrun  the  red  deer; 
And  his  dancin'  was  such  that  the  men  used  to  stare, 
And   the  women  turned  crazy,   he  had  done  it  so 

quare  — 

And,  begorra,  the  whole  world  '  gave  in  to  him  there. 
And  it's  he  was  the  boy  that  was  hard  to  be  caught ; 
And  it's  often  he  ran,  and  it's  often  he  fought, 
And  it's  many's  the  one  can  remember  quite  well 
The  quare  things  he  done ;   and  it's  often  I  heerd  tell 
How  he  frightened  the  magistrate  in  Cahirbally, 
And  escaped  through  the  sojers  in  Aherlow  valley, 
And  leathered  the  yeomen,  himself  agin  four, 
And  stretched  the  two  strongest  on  old  Galtimore. 

1  In  Gaelic  the  consonant  r  is  given  its  full  value  before 
another  consonant,  producing  the  effect  of  a  dissyllable ;  e.  g. 
tarbh,  pronounced  "  thorruv  "  (a  bull);  compare  the  French 
taureau.  This  practice,  like  many  other  Gaelic  locutions,  has 
been  carried  into  English;  hence  "  v/orruld  "  for  "world"; 
"firrum"  for  "firm,"  etc. 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       491 

But  the  fox  must  sleep  sometimes,  the  wild  deer  must 

rest, 

And  treachery  prey  on  the  blood  of  the  best, 
And  many  a  brave  action  of  power  and  pride, 
And  many  a  hard  night  on  the  mountain's  bleak  side, 
And  a  thousand  great  dangers  and  toils  overpast, 
In  the  darkness  of  night  he  was  taken  at  last. 


Now,  Shamus,  look  back  on  the  beautiful  moon, 

For  the  door  of  the  prison  must  close  on  you  soon  ; 

And  take  your  last  look  at  her  dim  lovely  light, 

That  falls  on  the  mountain  and  valley  this  night ; 

One  look  at  the  village,  one  look  at  the  flood, 

And  one  at  the  sheltering,  far-distant  wood. 

Farewell  to  the  forest,  farewell  to  the  hill, 

And  farewell  to  the  friends  that  will  think  of  you  still ; 

Farewell  to  the  hurlin',  the  pattern,  and  wake, 

An'  farewell  to  the  girl  that  would  die  for  your  sake. 

Well,  twelve  soldiers  brought  him  to  Maryboro'  jail, 

And  the  turnkey  received  him,  refusin'  all  bail ; 

The  fleet  limbs  were  chained,  and  the  strong  handg 

were  bound, 
And   he  laid   down   his   length  on  the  cold  prison 

ground. 

And  the  dreams  of  his  childhood  came  over  him  there, 
As  gentle  and  soft  as  the  sweet  summer  air ; 
And  happy  remembrances  crowding  on  ever, 
As  fast  the  foam-flakes  drift  down  the  river, 
Bringing  fresh  to  his  heart  merry  Jays  long  gone  by, 
Till  the  tears  gathered  heavy  and  thick  in  his  eye. 
But  the  tears  didn't  fall,  for  the  pride  of  his  heart 
Wouldn't  suffer  one  drop  down  his  pale  cheek  to  start ; 
And  he  sprang  to  his  feet  in  the  dark  prison  cave, 


492      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OP 

And  he  swore  with  the  fierceness  that  misery  gave, 
By  the  hopes  of  the  good,  by  the  cause  of  the  brave, 
That  when  he  was  moldering  in  his  cold  grave 
His  enemies  never  should  have  it  to  boast 
His  scorn  of  their  vengeance  one  moment  was  lost ; 
His  bosom  might  bleed,  but  his  cheek  should  be  dry, 
For  undaunted  he'd  lived,  and  undaunted  he'd  die. 

Well,  as  soon  as  a  few  weeks  were  over  and  gone, 

The  terrible  day  of  the  trial  came  on. 

There  was  such  a  crowd  there  was  scarce  room  to 

stand, 

With  soldiers  on  guard,  and  dragoons  sword  in  hand  ; 
And   the   court-house   so   full   that   the   people  was 

bothered, 

And  attorneys  and  criers  on  the  point  of  being  smoth- 
ered ; 

And  counselors  almost  given  over  for  dead, 
And  the  jury  sittin'  up  in  their  box  overhead ; 
And  the  judge  settled  out,  so  determined  and  big, 
With  his  gown  on  his  back,  and  an  illigant  new  wig. 
And  silence  was  called,  and  the  minute  it  was  said, 
The  court  was  as  still  as  the  heart  of  the  dead, 
And  they  heard  but  the  opening  of  one  prison  lock, 
And  Shamus  O'Brien  came  into  the  dock. 
For  one  minute  he  turned  his  eye  round  on  the  throng, 
And  he  looked  on  the  bars,  so  firm  and  so  strong, 
And  he  saw  that  he  hadn't  a  hope  nor  a  friend, 
A  chance  to  escape  nor  a  word  to  defend ; 
And  he  folded  his  arms  as  he  stood  there  alone, 
As  calm  and  as  cold  as  a  statue  of  stone. 
And  they  read  a  big  writin',  a  yard  long  at  laste, 
And  Jim  didn't  understand  it  or  mind  it  a  taste. 
And  the  judge  took  a  big  pinch  of  snuff,  and  he  says, 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS 

"Are  you  guilty  or  not,  Jim  O'Brien,  if  you  plase?" 
And  they  all  held  their  breath  in  silence  of  dread ; 
And  Shamus  O'Brien  made  answer  and  said, 
"  My  lord,  if  you  ask  me  if  in  my  lifetime 
I  thought  any  treason,  or  done  any  crime 
That  should  call  to  my  cheek,  as  I  stand  alone  here, 
The  hot  blush  of  shame  or  the  coldness  of  fear, 
Though  I  stood  by  the  grave  to  receive  my  death- 
blow, 

Before  God  and  the  world  I  would  answer  you,  '  No  ! ' 
But  if  you  would  ask  me,  as  I  think  it  like, 
If  in  the  rebellion  I  carried  a  pike, 
And  fought  for  old  Ireland  from  the  first  to  the  close, 
And  shed  the  heart's  blood  of  her  bitterest  foes, 
I  answer  you,  '  YES,'  and  I  tell  you  again, 
Though  I  stand  here  to  perish,  it's  my  glory  that  then 
In  her  cause  I  was  willin'  my  veins  should  run  dry, 
And  that  now  for  her  sake  I  am  ready  to  die." 
Then  the  silence  was  great,  and  the  jury  smiled  bright, 
And  the  judge  wasn't  sorry  the  job  was  made  light ; 
By  my  soul,  it's  himself  was  the  crabbed  old  chap, 
In  a  twinklin'  he  pulled  on  his  ugly  black  cap. 
Then  Shamus's  mother,  in  the  crowd  standing  by, 
Called  out  to  the  judge  with  a  pitiful  cry  : 
"  Oh  !  judge,  darlin',  don't — oh,  don't  say  the  word  ! 
The  crathur  is  young,  have  mercy,  my  lord  ! 
He  was  foolish,  he  didn't  know  what  he  was  doin' ; 
You  don't  know  him,  my  lord — oh,  don't  give  him  to 

ruin  ! 

He's  the  kindliest  crathur,  the  tenderest  hearted, 
Don't  part  us  forever,  we  that's  so  long  parted  ! 
Judge,   mavourneen,  forgive  him  !    forgive   him,   my 

lord! 
And  God  will  forgive  you.     Oh  !  don't  say  the  word  !  " 


494      THE  GOLDEN  TRE4SURT  OF 

That  was  the  first  minute  O'Brien  was  shaken, 
When  he  saw  that  he  wasn't  quite  forgot  or  forsaken ; 
And  down  his  pale  cheeks,  at  the  words  of  his  mother, 
The  big  tears  were  runnin'  fast,  one  after  th'  other; 
And  he  tried  hard  to  hide  them  or  wipe  them  away, 
But  in  vain,  for  his  hands  were  too  fast  bound  that 

day. 

And  two  or  three  times  he  endeavored  to  spake, 
But  the  strong,  manly  voice  used  to  falter  and  break, 
Till  at  last,  by  the  strength  of  his  high-mounting  pride, 
He  conquered  and  mastered  his  grief's  swelling  tide. 
And,  says  he,  "  Mother  darlin',  don't  break  your  poor 

heart, 

For,  sooner  or  later,  the  dearest  must  part. 
And  God  knows  it's  better  than  wandering  in  fear 
On  the  bleak,  trackless  mountain  among  the  wild  deer, 
To  lie  in  the  grave,  where  the  head,  hand,  and  breast 
From  thought,  labor,  and  sorrow  forever  shall  rest. 
Then,  mother,  my  darlin',  don't  cry  any  more, 
Don't  make  me  seem  broken  in  this  my  last  hour; 
For  I  wish,  when  my  head  is  lyin'  under  the  raven, 
No  true  man  can  say  that  I  died  like  a  craven !  " 
Then  towards  the  judge  Shamus  bowed  down  his  head, 
And  that  minute  the  solemn  death  sentence  was  said. 

The  morning  was  bright,  and  the  mists  rose  on  high, 
And  the  lark  whistled  merrily  in  the  clear  sky. 
But  why  are  the  men  standin'  idle  so  late  ? 
And  why  do  the  crowds  gather  fast  in  the  street  ? 
What  come  they  to  talk  of?     What  come  they  to  see? 
And  why  does  the  long  rope  hang  from  the  cross-tree  ? 
Now,  Shamus  O'Brien,  pray  fervent  and  fast; 
May  the  saints  take  your  soul !  for  this  day  is  your 
last; 


IRISH  SONGS  AND  LYRICS       495 

Pray  fast,  and  pray  strong,  for  the  moment  is  nigh 
When,  strong,  proud,  and  great  as  you  are,  you  must 

die. 

And  faster  and  faster  the  crowd  gathered  there  — 
Boys,  horses,  gingerbread,  just  like  a  fair ; 
And  whiskey  was  sellin',  and  cussamuck1  too, 
And  ould  men  and  young  women  enjoyin'  the  view ; 
And  ould  Tim  Mulvaney  he  made  the  remark, 
"There  wasn't  such  a  sight  since  the  time  of  Noah's 

ark! 
And,  begorra,  'twas  true  for  him,  the  devil  such  a 

scruge, 
Such   divarshin    and   crowds   was   known   since   the 

deluge ! 

Ten  thousand  was  gathered  there,  if  there  was  one, 
All  waitin'  till  such  time  as  the  hangin'  'id  come  on. 
At  last  they  drew  open  the  big  prison  gate, 
And  out  came  the  sheriffs  and  soldiers  in  state, 
And  a  cart  in  the  middle,  and  Shamus  was  in  it, 
Not  paler,  but  prouder  than  ever,  that  minute. 
And  as  soon  as  the  people  saw  Shamus  O'Brien, 
With  prayin'  and  blessin'  an*  all  the  girls  cryin', 
A  wild  wailin'  sound  came  on  by  degrees, 
Like  the  sound  of  the  lonesome  wind  blowin'  through 

trees. 

On,  on  to  the  gallows  the  sheriffs  are  gone, 
And  the  cart  and  the  soldiers  go  steadily  on  ; 
And  at  every  side  swellin'  around  of  the  cart, 
A  wild  sorrowful  sound  that  would  open  your  heart. 
Now  under  the  gallows  the  cart  takes  its  stand, 
And  the  hangman  gets  up  with  the  rope  in  his  hand  ; 


1  Cussamuck,  leavings. 


496         THE  GOLDEN  TREJSURT  OF 

And  the  priest  gives  his  blessing  and  goes  down  on  the 

ground, 

And  Shamus  O'Brien  throws  one  last  look  around ; 
Then  the  hangman  drew  near,  and  the  people  grew 

still, 

Young  faces  turned  sickly  and  warm  hearts  grew  chill. 
And  all  being  ready,  his  neck  was  made  bare, 
For  the  gripe  of  the  life-stranghV  cord  to  prepare; 
And  the  good  priest  had  left  him,  having  said  his  last 

prayer. 

But  the  good  priest  done  more,  for  his  hands  he  un- 
bound, 
And  with  one  daring  spring  Jim  has  leaped  on  the 

ground  ! 

Bang  !  bang  !  go  the  carbines  and  clash  go  the  sabers  ! 
"  He's  not  down  !  he's  alive  still !  Now  stand  to  him, 

neighbors ! 

Through  the  smoke  and  the  horses  he's  into  the  crowd  ! 
By  the  heavens  he  is  free  !  "  than  thunder  more  loud, 
By  one  shout  from  the  people  the  heavens  were 

shaken  — 

One  shout  that  the  dead  of  the  world  might  awaken. 
Your  swords  they  may  glitter,  your  carbines  go  bang, 
But  if  you  want  hangin',  yourself  you  must  hang, 
For  to-night  he'll  be  sleepin'  in  Aherglow  glen, 
And  the  devil's  in  the  dice  if  you  catch  him  again. 
The  soldiers  run  this  way  the  hangmen  run  that, 
And  Father  Malone  lost  his  new  Sunday  hat ; 
And  the  sheriffs  were  both  of  them  punished  severely, 
And   fined  like  the  devil,   because  Jim  done  them 

fairly. 


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